The Chisellers (5 page)

‘Didn’t yeh hear the whistle, Mark?’ He spoke to the back of Mark’s head.

Mark turned and smiled at him. ‘I did, Mr McHugh. That’s okay, I have me sandwiches here. I’ll have them as I’m working. I’m not really a tea man, if yeh know what I mean.’

Sean dug his large hands into the pockets of his dungarees. ‘Christ, Mark, if I had ten like you, I’d put this factory back on its feet!’

‘Thanks, Mr McHugh.’

‘That’s okay, son. I really mean it.’ Sean began to walk away, then stopped and turned back to the boy. He suddenly had a notion. ‘Mark?’

Mark looked up. He had three pin-nails in his mouth but still managed to answer. ‘Yes, Mr McHugh?’

‘I’d like you to do something with me on Monday.’

Sean McHugh spent the next twenty minutes telling Mark the situation at Wise’s. Explaining who Smyth & Blythe were, and how important they were to the future of the business, Sean told Mark he felt that if somebody young went along to this meeting then Smyth & Blythe might regain a bit of confidence in Wise‘s, seeing some new blood. He didn’t know if it would work, but it was worth a try. ’So what do you think, Mark, will you do it?‘

‘Well yeh, sure, Mr McHugh, if you think it will help. But I’ve never been to a meetin’ before - what’ll I wear?’

Sean laughed and patted the boy on the back. ‘A shirt and tie will be fine, Mark.’

‘A shirt and tie. Okay, then.’

Sean went back to his office a little lighter on his feet and for some reason that he couldn’t explain to himself, his heart a little happier! Mark slowly placed three more nails in his mouth, stooped down to the roll-top desk he was working on and said aloud to himself, ‘Where the fuck will I get a shirt and tie?’

Agnes sat ashen-faced across the table from the principal of St Declan’s Technical School. She could not honestly defend Frankie. She wanted to think that this man was just a crabby old school principal who for some reason was picking on her son, but in her heart she knew this wasn’t true. Frankie, she had to admit to herself, but only in her mind, was a bad egg.

‘Frankly, Mrs Browne, we see the binman more often at the school than your son - and the binman comes only once a week. When Frankie does arrive he disrupts classes, he’s a bad influence on the other boys, and he bullies and terrorises not just his classmates but some of the teachers also. It just can’t go on. It simply can’t go on.’

He looked over his glasses at this relatively young woman. She seemed a decent sort.

Agnes felt that she should say something, and her bottom lip quivered as she tried to speak. ‘It’s ... it’s my fault ... I don’t spend enough time with him at home ... he’s, he’s just a ... a boy.‘

The principal looked over the rim of his glasses again, and he felt sad for the woman.

‘I have no wish to correct you, Mrs Browne. But don’t forget I also have young Dermot as a pupil here and although, yes, he is a bit of a livewire, he’s a good student and a hard-working lad. I feel that he would be a better reflection of the love and care your children get at home. And, indeed, young Simon too - not the brightest, but a good solid lad.’

Agnes dropped her eyes. She didn’t take compliments too well. She looked down at her hands, twisting around the strap of her handbag, then looked up at the principal again. ‘So what now? What do we do now?’

‘Well- Mrs Browne, I have no idea what you’re going to do, but from today I am expelling your son from this school for non-attendance.’

Agnes had expected it. She didn’t argue, she didn’t try to appeal to the man’s better nature, she simply stood and hooked her handbag over her left arm and, brushing down her coat, quietly said, ‘Okay. Thank you very much,’ and left.

It was a two-mile walk back to James Larkin Court for Agnes, and she cried every step of the way.

Teatime in the Browne house was storytime in many ways as each of the children fought for time to tell the highlight of their day. Cathy was all hyped up because there was to be a go-cart race down Summerhill in a week’s time and she and Cathy Dowdall were going to be in it.

‘They won’t let youse in, youse are girls,’ Dermot stated.

‘So?’ Cathy asked.

‘Well, that’s it. Youse are girls. Girls don’t go into go-cart races.’ Dermot knew about these things.

Cathy folded her arms in front of her and sat back in the chair, staring at Dermot. ‘Says who?’ she demanded.

Dermot thought for a moment. ‘There’s a rule somewhere. There has to be!’

‘Well, there’s not. And me and Cathy Dowdall are goin’ into the race and what’s more we’re goin’ to win it.’

Agnes placed a full teapot or the table and said, ‘Good girl, Cathy. Who’s pushin’?‘

‘I am,’ Cathy said proudly.

‘I was thinkin’ so. That Cathy Dowdall wan would be too cute to have you sittin’ in the go-cart and her pushin’ - the lazy bitch!’

‘But I love pushin’, Ma! And I’m the fastest pusher in The Jarro.‘

‘Good girl, Cathy,’ Mark joined in, and winked at her.

As she poured out more tea for the boys Agnes asked as offhand as she could, ‘Was Frankie home this afternoon?’

Dermot was the one that answered. Very quietly, he simply said, ‘No.’

Cathy piped up, ‘I seen him today round the back of the shops, him and five other skinheads smokin’ and drinkin’ cider, Ma!’

Mark leaned across and placed his hand on Cathy’s arm. ‘Shush,’ he said. ‘Nobody likes a snitch, Cathy.’

Back at the cooker Agnes pretended she hadn’t heard Cathy’s remark. Before anyone had time to react to what Cathy had said Trevor strolled into the kitchen. ‘Look, Ma!’ he called out. He was holding ten new paintings he had done that day. He trotted over to the table and placed them on Mark’s lap saying, ‘Here, Marko.’

Mark feigned surprise. ‘Are these for me? Wow! Thanks very much, Trevor, you’re a great boy!’ And he bent over and kissed the boy on the forehead. He began to flick through the pictures. ‘They’re very good, Trevor.’

Agnes decided to add more accolades. ‘Well done, Trev. Sure, you’re a great boy!’

‘But they really are very good, Ma, look!’ said Mark, holding up two of the pictures.

Agnes looked at the pictures and smiled. ‘Yeh, they are very good. But, Jesus, I hope the teacher is not goin’ to spend all her time teachin’ him paintin’. That’ll be no good to him - unless she teaches him a bit of wallpaper-hangin’ as well.‘

The children all laughed - it was a welcome reprieve from the ‘Frankie’ subject. When tea was over the family began to disperse, Simon and Dermot to the boys’ bedroom to do their homework, Cathy to the room she shared with her mother to do press-ups. Trevor lay on the floor in the sitting-room watching TV. No homework for him! . Ten paintings a day was his limit. There was just Agnes and Mark left at the tea table.

‘I’m headin’ out to the bingo, Mark. Listen, Rory’s dinner is on the pot with a lid over it - if he’s not in by quarter to eight turn the heat off underneath the pot.’

‘Sure, Ma. I need a shirt and tie.’

‘Ah Jaysus, Mark, you’re not in court, are yeh?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Mark answered emphatically. ‘Mr McHugh wants me to go to a meetin’ with him on Monday.’

‘A meetin’? For what? What kind of meetin‘?’

While Agnes sipped her tea and lit yet another cigarette Mark told the story of his encounter that day with Sean McHugh. ‘So now I need a bleedin’ shirt and tie,’ he ended.

‘I’ll go down to Clery’s with yeh tomorrow! D’yeh know, Mark, it’s no harm. You could do with a bit of decent gear. We’ll get yeh the whole works. Shoes, shirt, tie, jacket, pants, the lot!‘

‘Steady, Ma! I’m only goin’ to wear them for a day.’

‘They won’t go to waste, luv. Every man should have some good gear to wear.’ The word ‘man’ had just slipped out but Mark noticed it and was very proud. Agnes stood up and began to clear off the table.

‘Leave those, Ma,’ Mark said. ‘I’ll do them. You go on to the bingo.’

‘Ah, you’re a sweetheart, luv.’

Agnes gathered her cigarettes and dropped them into her bingo bag, put on her coat, kissed all the children goodbye and left for the bingo.

When Rory arrived home at eight forty-five the heat under his dinner had been turned off for an hour. He had a hard job taking the lid off as it was stuck to the plate, the mashed potatoes had gone crispy and with the grease dry, the rashers now looked white.

‘Ah, Jaysus, me dinner’s in shite!’ he exclaimed.

Mark got up from the kitchen table where he was studying for his test and snapped the plate out of Rory’s hand. ‘It just needs to be heated. Here, give it to me.’

He opened the oven door, placed the plate in the rack, and using the flint spark-maker clicked the oven into life. He closed the door and stood up. ‘Now! Just give it a couple of minutes in there and it’ll be grand.’ He went back to his books.

Rory sat down on a chair beside him. ‘Oh Mark, me nerves!’ Rory said, but in such a way that meant he wanted to tell a story.

Mark closed his book and placed his pencil on the table. ‘Why, what’s wrong with yeh?’

‘I got ... I got chased home from work. I’m sweatin’, and me legs are weak.‘

‘What
^?
Chased? By who?’

‘Skinheads. There was about ten of them. I was rattlin’, Mark, yeh should have seen me. I was like Ronnie Delaney comin’ up St Jarlath’s Street.‘

Mark was now paying great attention. Brownes don’t get chased. ‘Were they from here? From The Jarro?’

‘I don’t know - what d’yeh think I did, stopped and said can I have all your names please before I fuckin’ run?‘

‘Take it easy. I mean, did you recognise any of them?’

‘Mark, wait till I tell yeh —
they
were chasin’
me
, I wasn’t chasin’ them. D’yeh think I have eyes in the back of me head?‘

‘Okay! Just tell me where did they start chasin’ yeh from?’

‘Right outside Wash & Blow. I think they were waitin’ for me.’

Rory got up and took a tea-towel and opened the door of the oven. Gingerly he took out the plate. ‘Jesus, it’s roastin’!‘ he yelped.

‘Switch off that oven and close the door,’ Mark ordered. But he wasn’t thinking about the oven; he was thinking about a gang of skinheads chasing his younger brother. This wasn’t on, not on at all.

Rory cut up the first of his rashers and held his hand in mid-air for Mark to see. ‘Look, Mark, I’m shakin’.‘

If Rory was shaking, not far away in St Francis Xavier Hall at that very moment his mother Agnes was positively vibrating.

Top of the house - ninety.‘

There was a tremor in Agnes’s voice as she made the announcement to the group. ‘That’s it! I have a wait!’

‘I don’t believe yeh! What is it?’ asked Carmel.

‘Believe it or not, it’s number seven.’ Agnes sounded exasperated.

‘Again? Jaysus!’ groaned Nelly.

‘I must be goin’ to win again so,’ Bunnie said rather chirpily.

‘One and four — fourteen.’

‘There’s still a good six or seven calls to go yet, Agnes.’ Carmel nudged her in the ribs.

‘On its own - number seven!’

It was hard to tell at first who had actually won. Nelly, Carmel, Splish, Splash, Agnes and even Bunnie simultaneously rose to their feet and screamed ‘Check!’ Slightly behind Agnes and over to the left-hand side of the hall, a similar thing was taking place as another group of four or five also screamed ‘Check!’