The Granny (15 page)

“Agnes, I don’t know where Marion is, I can’t find her anywhere. Now, you probably don’t know either?” She waited. Agnes didn’t answer.

“Anyhow, I was hoping you might bump into her, and if you do would you give her a message for me?” The woman’s voice was soft and nice, and it frightened Agnes even more. She nodded her head.

“Good. Tell her that I am very sorry for being annoyed at her, and that I love her and miss her very much. Tell her that I can’t manage the stall on me own and that if she will come back I’ll be nicer to her.”

“And pay me?” came a voice from under the bed.

The bright August sun shone down Moore Street. It was a beautiful Irish summer’s day. Agnes stood beside Marion at her mother’s stall. They watched Nellie and Mrs. Delany across the street, talking. Every now and then, Nellie would throw a glance over at Agnes. Each time Marion would give a commentary, “She’s lookin’, stand up straight,” and Agnes would. They awaited the outcome of Mrs. Delany’s approach on behalf of Agnes.

Nellie Nugent, in her late fifties, was a quiet, uncomplicated woman. She had been standing in the same spot in Moore Street selling vegetables every trading day for forty years, with the exception of a five-year gap which she spent in prison for killing her third husband. On the evening of the man’s death, Nellie had called the police to say that her husband had committed suicide. However, on arrival, just the preliminary examination of the body showed fourteen stab wounds, and this would have made it the worst case of suicide ever seen in Ireland. So Nellie was arrested. A subsequent inquiry revealed that David Nugent, the dead man, an ex-British Army soldier, had been beating on Nellie on such a regular basis that it bordered on torture. And on that particular night, Nellie had just cracked in the middle of one of his beatings. She went into a frenzy, and she told the court that once she began she found it difficult to stop. She was found guilty of manslaughter and served her time. Her plea of aggravated self-defense was not accepted, for at this time in Ireland it was indeed legal to beat your wife, provided you did not use a stick longer than your forearm. Nellie’s first two husbands, both coincidentally British soldiers, had died of natural causes: they were shot, in battle, naturally.

Nellie spoke very little—no idle chitchat, no gossiping—and she rarely smiled. She knew who her friends were on Moore Street, and she was a good friend to them, but she distrusted outsiders. There were a thousand nicknames that could have been given to Nellie; “the Black Widow” or “Praying Mantis” spring to mind immediately. But this is Dublin, and more particularly this is Moore Street, where the direct approach is always found to be the best. So it was that Nellie was simply known as “Nellie the Knife.” Now getting toward her sixtieth year, Nellie was tired. Forty years on the street, prison, trauma, and life had taken their toll, and it was getting harder and harder for Nellie to keep the stall going alone. Nellie had no children as far as anyone knew, and she never spoke of relatives. So, unlike all the other women on the street, who were surrounded by family that would help on the stalls, Nellie ran a solo operation.

Mrs. Delany called Agnes to come over.

“Here goes,” Agnes said aloud.

“Good luck, Agnes.” Marion was more nervous than Agnes.

Agnes walked briskly across the street. At the stall, she stood beside Mrs. Delany. It was time for her job interview.

Nellie looked her up and down. “Show me your hands,” she asked. Agnes held her hands out, palms up.

“She’s a hard worker!” Mrs. Delany offered.

“She’d better be,” Nellie stated flatly. She looked Agnes in the eyes. “Don’t give me any shit,” she warned.

“I won’t,” Agnes promised.

A customer approached. Nellie tossed a couple of bright-red tomatoes into a paper bag, spun the bag around to seal it, and took the customer’s money. When the customer was gone she returned to the interview. “Right, I’ll try the young wan out.” And the interview was over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Marion had the key to Nellie’s shed; it had been given to her by her mother the previous evening. She was told to pass it on to Agnes for her first day at work. Marion indeed passed the key over to Agnes, in what resembled a pagan ritual. The holding of the shed key carried with it great responsibility, and on handing over the key to Agnes, Marion greatly emphasized this:

“Never leave the street during trading hours with the key.” Marion spoke as if these words had been drummed into her; they probably were. Agnes nodded.

“If you must leave the street, give the key to the dealer, in this case Nellie Nugent. Once you have returned to the street, get the key back immediately. Now, this is important,” Marion said. “Nothing annoys a dealer more than asking her runner”—she pointed to Agnes—“you, to fetch something from the shed and then you having to ask her for the key, it drives them mad.” Marion lifted her eyes to heaven, and Agnes nodded very seriously, as if she understood every word and indeed the implications of every word.

Marion continued: “Agnes, as the holder of the key, you must be on time every day, no exceptions.”

Agnes nodded. “I will,” she promised.

“Now, I’ve put the key on a bit of string that you can put around your neck. That’s the best place to keep it: that way you know it’s always there.” Marion handed the key and string to Agnes, who immediately put it around her neck as if it were an Olympic medal. They smiled at each other.

“Right, let’s get going,” Marion said. Agnes’ new boss, Nellie, would spend from 5 a.m. to 7 a.m. in the wholesale fruit markets. There she would be picking the best fruit and vegetables, haggling with the wholesaler, and deciding what would sell and what would not sell. There is no storage in the shed for fruit. Once the horse and cart arrive from the wholesalers, everything must go on the stall, so the stall must be ready for stocking out. The two young girls opened the shed and began to drag and carry the makings of the stall from the shed. There were four leg slats, hinge supports that opened out so a top board could lay across them to provide the table base upon which the stall would be built. In Nellie’s case, her stall would be eight feet wide and four feet deep. Then three wooden apple-boxes were carried up. Two of these would be placed end to end in the center of the stall, and the third one on top of the two, giving the stall its popular triangle-ish form. Next, over the entire structure was thrown a sheet of green sacking. This would be tucked and fitted into the corners and the base of the apple boxes and held there by heavy iron bars. Agnes worked feverishly. She had helped Marion build her mother’s stall many times, and indeed Nellie’s was similar in shape, so she managed quite well. When she completed it, Agnes went across the street to Marion, who was busy finishing her own mother’s stall.

“What do you think?” she asked Marion. Marion stopped what she was doing and ran a critical eye over Agnes’ work. She smiled.

“Well done, Agnes, it looks great.”

“Really? Does it, really?”

“Yeh. Brilliant. You’re a natural, girl, a natural,” Marion confirmed.

Agnes gave a little giggle of delight. “Will she like it, do you think?”

“What?” Marion was back working now.

“Nellie, will she like it?” Agnes was smiling.

“Oh no. No, she won’t like it. Nellie doesn’t like anything.” And Marion carried on working. With the wind taken out of her sails, Agnes strolled back to her monument and began tidying out the area to await Nellie’s arrival.

The fresh fruit, vegetable, and fish wholesale markets in Dublin City take in a huge area from Capel Street down through Mary’s Abbey, from Green Street down to Strand Street and across to Church Street. The center of the market, and indeed the center of the activity, is the main Corporation Market building itself.

On the north side of the building, just across the road from the main building itself, stands Rosie’s Market Café. Rosie’s opens for business in the early hours of the morning, when John Joe O’Reilly unlocks the doors at 3:30 a.m. The doors stay open until the late afternoon, and its clientele come in shifts.

At 3:30 a.m. would come the prostitutes. These would arrive for their end-of-working-day snack. From that moment on, the place would be a buzz of conversation in high-pitched squeals as the gossip of the previous evening was discussed. “Crabs, says he. What? says I. Have you got crabs? says he. Yes, says I, what do you expect for two pound fucking prawns?” Squeals of laughter, slagging matches, tears, and the odd argument all happening at the same time, while John Joe O’Reilly, the proprietor and chef, would be trying to grab orders, and not in the style of the more sedate Southside restaurants. For instance, one would rarely see a chef patrone on the south side of the city scream at a customer, “I heard ya, eggs sunny side up, I’m not fucking deaf. Now sit down, you fat slapper. Next!”

By 4:30 a.m., these would be all gone, and John Joe would have time for a smoke before the 5:00 a.m. arrivals. This time, long-distance truck drivers. These hardy, tough men would have driven through the night from the four corners of Ireland to get their produce to the markets before 3 a.m. It could take up to two hours to unload their produce, and now it was time for their dinner before setting out again cross-country to reload and get some sleep. Steaming tea was served in half-pint mugs for these men, none of your fancy cups here, and the toast would be thick-cut bread dripping in melted butter. They were a reasonably quiet lot, though, preferring to use the time chewing the grease rather than chewing the fat. The drivers would leave virtually en masse before 6 a.m., the huge convoy clogging the narrow market lanes for about thirty minutes as they exited the city. For the rest of the morning, Rosie’s Café belonged to the dealers.

When the dealers had finished in the wholesaler’s, they would repair to Rosie’s Market Café for a greasy fry-up, some tea, and some toast. Outside of Rosie’s would stand the line of well-sprung prams of varying manufacturers but of similar design. Each pram would be laden down with whatever the dealer could push. This would give her the opportunity to get her stall partially stacked while she awaited the arrival of the horse and cart later in the morning. The dealers were only able to take this well-earned breakfast break thanks to the young girls that were up in the street at that moment building the stalls.

This morning, thanks to her now employment of the young wan, Nellie Nugent was able to set foot in the café for breakfast for the first time in years. John Joe O’Reilly spotted Nellie the moment she entered. He knew her face, he knew she was a dealer, and he could tell that she had not been in his café for some years, but he could not recall why. Nellie, on seeing Marion’s mother, made her way to a seat and a table beside her. John Joe arrived there at the same time and was by her side.

“Here, you.” John Joe spoke to Nellie sternly, pointing his finger.

Nellie’s eyebrows raised. “What?” she was surprised and puzzled.

“I don’t want any trouble out of you,” John Joe warned.

Nellie looked from Mrs. Delany to John Joe. “What are you fucking talking about?” Nellie now stood up again.

“Didn’t I bar you from here for causing trouble?” John Joe asked.

“No,” Nellie answered sternly.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive,” Nellie insisted.

John Joe relaxed. “That’s all right, then. Now, ladies, what will it be?” He carried on.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Marion was correct. Agnes was indeed a “natural” street trader. Although she had not been allowed by Nellie to “sell” yet, Agnes ran her end of the stall like a military operation. She kept the area spotless: no empty boxes, cabbage leaves, or rotted fruit near the stall. Before she stacked the stall with it, every bit of fruit was washed, and her apples were shined within an inch of their lives. Nellie gave no compliments, but it was clear that a healthy respect for the young girl was creeping in. Each morning, Nellie would take her tea break about 11:30 and cross the street to have a cup of tea with Mrs. Delany. The tea came from Maher’s Pub, at least the boiling water did. The dealers all had their own mugs, teapots, and sugar. The pub would allow them to fill their teapots free of charge from a huge Burko boiler that was kept on the boil all day. Marion and Agnes took turns at fetching and making the tea. When it was prepared, the two older women would sit on apple boxes and the youngsters would work the stalls. Agnes looked forward to this short spell of standing on the platform each day. She would serve to the odd customer, weighing out the fruit and vegetables and always tossing an extra tomato or apple into the bag over the weight. She had noticed Nellie doing this, and the reaction of the customers when they saw that little extra being given to them.

“She’s very good, isn’t she?” Mrs. Delany remarked to Nellie. Mrs. Delany had noticed Nellie watching Agnes as the young girl served yet another customer. Nellie sipped on her tea.

“She smiles a lot,” Nellie said in reply. “Customers like that.” She took another sip. Then she produced a half-smoked cigarette from her coat pocket. The butt was wrinkled and bent. Nellie carefully straightened it out, placed it between her lips, and lit it, never taking her eyes from Agnes across the street.

“When are you going to get her selling?” Mrs. Delany asked.

“I’ll see.” Nellie wasn’t committing herself.

“It’s been six months now. I think she could be up to it.”