The Young Wan (11 page)

Connie intervened. “Now, wait a minute, Bosco. I’m entitled to an explanation here,” she began, but was halted once again by Bosco’s upturned arm.

“You are entitled, are you? Entitled??? Entitled to what? I, woman, am entitled.” He beat his chest. “I am entitled to have my children minded properly, that’s what I am entitled to. I’m entitled to know what’s going on in my own home without having to hear it from neighbors on the street. That’s what I’m entitled to, missus,” Bosco screamed at her.

Connie advanced on Bosco. “Now, just wait a minute, Bosco. You calm down and lower your voice before you talk to anyone in this house.” The slap was so rapid and made such a crack of a noise that it startled Connie before she knew she had even been slapped. Her head spun. She froze. She put her hand to her glowing red cheek. Without a word she went to her bedroom. Agnes was now standing in front of her father screaming at him.

“I didn’t even have anything to drink,” she squealed, “not a drop.”

“Don’t you lie to me, young wan,” Bosco screamed.

At the table Dolly’s eyes widened as she saw it happen. It was as if it were in slow motion. Her father’s right hand came across from his left hip, the back of the hand striking Agnes square across her cheek. Her head swung slightly, and the child staggered backward. Dolly began to cry. Agnes ran to the armchair and buried her face in the cushion.

Bosco stomped around the room yelling, and then stepped up behind Agnes. He bent over her; there was still fury in his voice. “Now, young wan, I hope you’re happy. Look what you’ve caused. Your sister’s upset, your mother’s upset. I hope your little drinking binge was worth it. Jesus Christ, little did I know I was rearing a”—he searched—“tramp.” Bosco, now at a loss for words, angrily paced the room twice and then left the flat, slamming the door behind him. And then there was silence.

Dolly, sobbing, got down from her chair and walked to the armchair where her older sister was sobbing. She slapped Agnes on the back and cried.

“You made Daddy angry and you made Mammy cry. Bitch!”

Two hours later, the two young girls were lying awake in their beds when they heard the front door open and close.

“Daddy’s back,” Dolly whispered.

“Shut up,” Agnes said.

“Don’t make him angry again, Agnes,” Dolly whispered.

“I didn’t make him angry. Now, shut up.” Agnes had long finished her cry. “Anyway,” she continued, “he’ll be sorry when I’m gone away.”

“I won’t,” Dolly said as she pulled the blanket up under her chin.

They lay there in silence for a while. Listening. There was no sound coming from outside. So the girls spoke in whispers.

“Where are you going away to?” Dolly asked Agnes.

“Canada. I told you before, I’m going to Canada. Now, shut up.”

“Oh yeh, Canada. Is Canada far away, Agnes?” Dolly asked.

“I don’t know, more than a hundred miles, I think.”

“Daddy won’t let you go, I betcha.”

“He can’t stop me once I’m eighteen,” Agnes answered with authority.

“And when you’re eighteen, Agnes, what age will I be?” Dolly asked, and Agnes thought about this for a moment, counting the years in her head.

“Thirteen.” Agnes gave Dolly the answer. Dolly lay thinking about this for some moments.

“When you’re eighteen, you can come to Canada after me, if you want.”

“Nah. I better stay here and look after Daddy,” Dolly quietly said, and she pulled the covers even tighter under her chin.

Bosco stood in the center of the room. Connie, who had been sitting in the armchair when he entered, rose and walked passed him toward the cooker.

“I’ll heat your dinner. Sit down,” she said. Bosco removed his cap and his jacket and tossed them onto the armchair.

“Thanks,” he said simply, and sat. When the stew was reheated, Connie filled a bowl and buttered two slices of bread to accompany it. She placed the bowl and bread in front of Bosco along with the spoon. Instead of returning to the armchair, she sat at the table facing her husband. She didn’t speak. Bosco began to eat, uncomfortably. After a couple of mouthfuls he put the spoon down, slowly.

“She was drinking, Agnes was. Twelve years of age and she was drinking. Down a lane with those tramp friends of hers.”

“Was she?” Connie simply asked.

“
Yes,
she was. Mrs. Brady told me so,” Bosco offered as evidence.

“Did she, now?” Connie asked sarcastically. “And if Mrs. Brady told you that Hitler was your father, would you come home here now and have us all goose-marching around the sitting room?”

“Don’t be so silly. Why would the woman say it if it weren’t the truth?”

“Because she’s a lazy, idle, good-for-nothing busybody gossip who thinks there’s no steam from her own shite. That’s why!” Connie leaned her arms on the table. “Now, you listen to me, Mr. Big Fucking Union Man, I know the scent of me own children. I could pick them out of a crowd in an unlit coal mine. If that girl was drinking today, I’d have smelled it. And I smelled nothing!” Her voice lowered. “Which is more than can be said for you, Bosco Reddin.” Connie rose from the table and walked to the cooker, over her shoulder firing a one-word question: “Tea?”

Bosco put his head in his hands and began to weep like a little baby. Connie went back to the table and stood over the slumped figure that she knew at heart was a good man. She ran her fingers through his hair.

“I was angry,” Bosco sobbed, “I was disappointed.” He looked up into her face. Connie placed her hand beneath her husband’s chin and looked into his eyes.

“No. Not disappointed. You were scared, Bosco. You were terrified. Your little baby girl will be a teenager in less than a year, and like every father before you and those that will come after, you were scared.” Bosco began to nod his head, and now the tears flowed freely down his face. Connie stooped and took his head on her shoulder and let him cry like a little boy. She brushed the back of his head softly, saying, “There, there, there,” as she would to a child.
A child,
she thought. Was this man of hers ever a child? She stood there holding on to him for dear life until the high-pitched sound of the kettle as it whistled interrupted them. Connie released Bosco from her arms.

“That union will be the death of you,” Connie muttered as she filled Bosco’s billycan with tomato soup.

“Give us a bit of bread with that,” Bosco asked, ignoring her words. He was busy lining the inside of his jacket with newspaper. It was going to be a long, cold night; the newspaper would provide much-needed insulation and heat.

“Is there no one else that can do a night picket except you?” Connie asked, not giving up. She was now buttering the thick slices of batch loaf. Again Bosco ignored her.

“Is there a heel in that?” Bosco asked. Connie held the heel, the end cut of the loaf and the thickest slice, up in the air where Bosco could see it. She offered it as evidence.

“Thanks.” Bosco smiled again and winked.

“I’m serious, Bosco, it can’t be just you all of the time.” Connie was not just idly moaning, she was genuinely upset. Bosco saw this and walked to her. He slid his arms around her waist from behind. Gently he kissed the back of her head and closed his eyes as Connie’s distinct scent filled his nostrils. When he spoke to her his voice was soft.

“Do you remember that first time you saw me speak, Connie? It was in the Gravediggers Pub,” he asked and answered.

“Yes, I do,” Connie answered. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back so that both their cheeks touched. “Young Liam Casey’s funeral, Lord rest him,” she added.

“Wasn’t I brilliant, Connie?” he asked. And felt her cheek swell as a smile broke on her lips.

“Fishing for compliments, are we now?” She scorned him, but playfully.

“No, love, I just want you to remember it, and remember it well. Because on that day and in that speech I made promises. Standing beside the dead young boy’s father, I made promises, and I aim to keep those promises, Connie. No matter if that means standing with the men to whom I made them throughout every night, in any weather, on any picket. Can you understand that, love? Can you, Connie?” She turned, defeated. And they kissed. When the kiss ended she held on to her man, tightly, and he to her. She whispered, “Kiss the girls good night before you go; they’re awake, and upset.” And they parted.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Bosco stood outside the girls’ bedroom for a few moments. He could hear his daughters talking softly. He waited a moment to compose himself. In the girls’ bedroom the conversation was very serious. Agnes, still with her back to Dolly, had tried to ignore her, but there was no escaping her sister’s chat.

“When you go to Canada, the wolves will eat you,” Dolly announced.

“No, they won’t.” Agnes was tired and sleepy.

Dolly, however, was in the wide-awake club. “They will. Wolves can smell if you’re afeared, and they eat you then,” Dolly insisted. Agnes didn’t reply. Dolly went on. “They start with your tummy, because that’s the softest part.” Dolly now began to mimic wolves eating. “
Chomp, chomp,
and your belly’s gone.” Dolly licked her lips. “Mmmmm, they’ll say, that was nice; now we’ll eat her diddies.”

Agnes turned. “Will you shut up?” With the onset of early puberty, Agnes was the only child in sixth class with breasts—or “diddies,” as Dolly, and most young girls, referred to them—and she was not at all happy about it. Especially after Marion’s story about her Auntie Tessie’s drooping mammaries. The bedroom door squeaked open slowly. A crack of light shone across the room onto their bed. Framed in the light stood the silhouette of the girls’ father. Dolly sat up. Agnes, still smarting from her father’s slap, turned back to the wall. Bosco walked in and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I just came in to say good night to my girls,” Bosco said softly.

Dolly stood in the bed and wrapped her arms around her father’s neck. “Good night, Daddy,” she squealed. Bosco hugged his youngest girl, and as he did so, he had his eyes on Agnes’ back.

“Good night, Aggie,” he said to her back.

“Good night,” he received in reply without her moving. Bosco held Dolly away from him and frowned at her.

“Are you getting skinny, Dolly Reddin?” he asked, pretending concern.

“Am I, Daddy?” Dolly asked, quite serious.

Bosco looked her over and put a finger to his lips in thought. “I don’t know.” He snapped his fingers. “Just in case, you best go out to your mammy and get a piece of bread and butter, with sugar on it.”

“Yes, please,” Dolly squealed, and was gone through the open door like a ferret, calling to her mother, “Mammy! Bread! Daddy said so.”

When she was gone, Bosco stretched out his arm and touched Agnes on the shoulder. She winced.

“I’m sorry, chicken,” he said.

“Okay,” she answered, but still did not move.

“I really am sorry, Agnes.” Bosco was close to tears.

“Doesn’t matter,” Agnes answered, again without turning.

“Yes, it does. I know I hurt you, and I know you’re in a place right now where it’s hard to forgive me. I slapped you because I didn’t know what else to do. I was scared.” Bosco was crumbling a little bit now. Even with her back turned to him, Agnes was becoming embarrassed.

“Shut up, Da, it doesn’t matter.” She wanted him to stop.

“Okay, love.” He rubbed her back gently and got up from the bed. At the door he turned and spoke. When he did, his voice was earnest.

“Agnes, I will never slap you again.”

Hearing this, Agnes turned and looked across the room into her father’s face. “Or Mammy,” she insisted. “You’ll never slap Mammy.” She was her father’s daughter.

Bosco bowed his head. “Never.”

“Promise?”

“I promise you, chicken.”

“Okay.” Agnes smiled. “Good night, Daddy.”

“Good night, my little darling.” Bosco smiled and left the room.

Neither Agnes Reddin nor her mother would ever be slapped by Bosco again. But for all the wrong reasons.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Outside of the Parker-Willis Foundry, despite the damp and cold, the strikers were in an unusually buoyant mood. Earlier, some horse-and-carts had arrived at the picket with a gift from members of the Irish Confectioners Union. The bakers from the Johnston, Mooney, and O’Brien Bakery, on the far side of the river, had sent a huge load of two-day-old bread and half-stale cake down to the strikers. Those on picket duty filled their pockets to bring the food home. They were now munching on some of the old but tasty jam doughnuts. To the striking foundry workers, the bread and cakes meant much more than food. It was a show of support from union members in a completely different industry to their own, and knowing that the support was there was enough to bring high spirits to the picket line. There were about thirty men on the night picket this night. They had gotten some old oil barrels and punched holes in them. Full of blazing wood, they made fine braziers. There was no shortage of wood or scraps of coal along the docks. The men stood in groups around the barrels, their smiling faces lit, and warm, and there was the odd bout of laughter as stories were exchanged.