The Young Wan (7 page)

“The door, Mr. Reddin.” Bosco looked over at the door and feigned a puzzled look. Then Bosco pointed to a painting on the wall.

“The painting, Mr. Parker-Willis. You’ll have to forgive me; I don’t know how to play this game,” Bosco apologized.

“I meant, shut the door, Mr. Reddin.” Geoffrey spoke through his teeth.

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Parker-Willis. I work in the casting shed, I don’t do doors. What you need is a doorman.” Bosco smiled. Geoffrey returned the smile and crossed the room. He closed the door himself.

“I think we both know why you’re here, Mr. Reddin,” Geoffrey said as he made his way to the chair. He sat.

“I know why you’re here, Mr. Parker-Willis. I have no idea why
I’m
here,” Bosco answered, quite honestly.

“Oh, come, now, Mr. Reddin! You’re hardly expecting me to just accept something like this? What did you think? That I would give you a big hug and start calling you ‘son’?” Parker-Willis chuckled.

“Not without a fuckin’ fight, Mr. Parker-Willis. You won’t hug me without a fight.” Bosco had no idea where this was going.

“My daughter is very important to me,” Geoffrey started, and waited. Bosco thought there would be more to this sentence. He didn’t realize he was expected to reply.

“Eh . . . that’s nice,” he managed.

“The thought of her marrying you may be very romantic to Constance, but you and I know the reality of it all would be . . . a disaster!”

Bosco’s mouth hung open for some moments. He stared across the desk at Geoffrey as his mind took in the details of the last statement. Geoffrey, mistaking this for the shock of discovery and not for the shock of disbelief that it actually was, carried on.

“Yes. She told me. I know all about it.” Geoffrey produced a cigar and lit it. Bosco quickly rooted in his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled half-smoked Afton cigarette. When they were both lit, Bosco spoke.

“She told you?” Bosco asked. Parker-Willis nodded knowingly.

“Now, look, Mr. Reddin, I have been around the course before. I know what you are up to, and I am a man who doesn’t beat about the bush with these things.” Geoffrey sat up and took a slow drag from his Havana.

“You know what I’m up to?” Bosco asked. Geoffrey nodded. “I see. So tell me, what am I up to, Mr. Parker-Willis?” Bosco was coming back from his shock now.

“Money.” Geoffrey answered. Bosco’s eyebrows lifted.

“Yeh think?” he said.

“Oh yes, Mr. Reddin. Money. It’s always about money. She may think you love
her,
but it’s money you love!” He chuckled and went on: “Constance is a fine girl, but she must be, what, I’d say ten years your senior? And she’s not exactly a blossoming beauty, eh? So—come on, how much?” Geoffrey was in businesss mode now and felt very comfortable. He sat back and waited for the man’s price. Bosco stood and walked to the window. He looked down at the filthy yard. He took a drag from his Afton and stared at the four huge chimney stacks spewing out the thick black soot-laden smoke that usually made its way into the Jarro. He turned.

“Make me an offer, Mr. Parker-Willis,” he said. Geoffrey smiled and touched the fingers of both his hands together in a little arch.

“One thousand pounds, Mr. Reddin.” Geoffrey spoke the mighty figure slowly, to give it impact. Bosco whistled.

“A thousand pounds would buy and furnish a good house, or buy and stock a shop, if a man had a mind to be a shopkeeper,” Bosco said.

Geoffrey had a grin as wide as Dublin Bay. “Yes, Mr. Reddin, a lot of money. So what do you say?”

Bosco squashed his cigarette in the ashtray and ran his hand through his black mane of hair.

“Let me just talk to someone and I’ll give you your answer then. Would that be all right, Mr. Parker-Willis?” Bosco asked.

Geoffrey stood and ushered Bosco to the door. “Of course, of course. I understand, Mr. Reddin. Let me know tomorrow.” Geoffrey was all smiles now. He knew he had him, the man didn’t even bargain.

“Oh, it won’t take that long, Mr. Parker-Willis, just a moment,” Bosco assured the man.

“Whatever.” Geoffrey raised his hands. “Whatever.” He charmed as Bosco left.

When he was gone, Geoffrey stood at his window over the yard and watched Bosco descend the steps. He saw him walk to the center of the yard and watched Bosco put a hand to each side of his mouth and begin to bellow. Bosco waited a moment and bellowed again. Geoffrey couldn’t make out what the man was saying, so he opened the window and leaned out to hear.

Constance had cried at first, then stopped. Then she ran to the window, looked out, and cried again. Then she ran back to her chair and cried again. It had been fifteen minutes since Bosco disappeared into her father’s office. Suddenly she saw the door to her father’s office open, and Bosco began to descend the steps. She watched as he walked to the center of the yard. He looked up at her window and shouted: “Miss! Miss Parker-Willis.”

She gave an involuntary yelp at hearing her name and ducked down, but she could still hear him.

“Miss Parker-Willis,” he called again. The yelling was attracting attention now, and the workers appeared from out of every place.

“Miss Parker-Willis,” Bosco called again. Bosco turned to the assembling crowd now. “What’s her first name?” he asked them. They all shrugged their shoulders.

“Constance,” came a voice from across the yard. It was one of the girls who worked in the wages office. “Her name is Constance,” the girl repeated. Bosco changed tack.

“Constance,” he called. “Constance Parker-Willis.” Constance slowly rose and peeked over the windowsill. The yard was packed now. All eyes looking to her window. She could see her father too, he was standing at his window, leaning out to hear.

Bosco called again: “Constance, are you there?”

Constance stood, brushed herself down, wiped her eyes, and patted down her skirt. She took a deep breath and threw open the windows. She looked down on Bosco. There was a circle of people around him. Silence descended at her appearance. They looked at each other, she and he.

“Yes, I’m here,” she called. There was a tremor in her voice. Bosco stepped closer to her window. “What do you want, Mr. Reddin?” she called. Bosco spoke loud enough for everybody to hear.

“Do you want to marry me?” he called up. All heads swung to look at Geoffrey Parker-Willis, then swung back to Constance. She was blushing so much her face glowed red. She stared at him. His face betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking. The words “Certainly not, you stupid man,” sprung to her mind. She opened her mouth.

“Yes,” she said. And her eyes began to fill. She felt as though she had ripped open her dress and exposed herself.

“Are you sure?” Bosco called out.

“Yes. I am sure, Mr. Reddin,” she answered. There was no going back now. A tear dropped onto her wrist. There was silence in the yard. Bosco first, and then everybody else, turned toward Geoffrey Parker-Willis.

“Mr. Parker-Willis, stick your money up your arse. I’m getting married.” The cheer in the yard was deafening. Geoffrey slammed his window closed. Bosco turned back to his new fiancée, a broad smile on his face. He smiled at her and winked. So much for the sitting with him and having a “chat,” then.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Forty-one steps. Constance had counted each and every one of them as she climbed to the top of the tenement building. The building was an old Georgian structure divided into four “homes” of three rooms each. There was no bath in the building and just one toilet, which was on the second landing. The stairs were wooden from the second floor upward but granite from the hallway to the toilet. Each of the twelve rooms in the building had an open fireplace, which provided the only heating, and beneath the stairs on the ground floor was a shed divided into four storage units, each with its own padlock. This was where you stored your fuel, be it turf, slack, or coal. There was also room to store a few other things, if you had anything else to store.

Constance stood behind a breathless Bosco as he wrestled with the key in the lock of flat 4C. She heard the lock click loudly. Bosco turned the blackened brass knob and swung the brown wooden door open. He turned to her.

“It’s not a palace,” he said apologetically as he waved his arm wide for her to enter before him. Constance smiled nervously and entered what was to be her new home. She took in the center of the main room. It was gloomy. The room had one window to the world, and it was a multicolor of dirt and grime, from the green of algae on the outside to the brown staining of the coal and turf smoke on the inside.

“Switch on the light,” she told Bosco over her shoulder without turning. He laughed.

“It is on,” he said. She looked up to see a dull stained bulb doing its best to invade the gloom.

“Jesus,” she mumbled under her breath. Through the dull light Constance surveyed her new home. The living room had a fireplace and four walls. In the corner off to Constance’s right stood a four-ring gas cooker and oven. Beside this was a large Belfast sink precariously hanging on two brackets sticking from the wall. Over the sink was one brass pipe, which when Constance turned the faucet began to groan, bang, and then spurt ice-cold water. She looked at Bosco with a raised eyebrow.

“Needs a bit of work,” he said.

Constance turned one of the brass fittings on the cooker. The
putt putt
and smell told her it was working. She moved to the window, undid the sash lock, and tried to raise the window open. It didn’t move. From behind her Bosco mumbled. “Needs a bit of work too.”

Constance wet her finger and ran it across the windowpane, leaving a clear streak on the glass.

“Who lived here before?” Constance asked.

“The Widow Clancy,” Bosco answered.

“She could have at least cleaned the window,” Constance moaned.

“She lived here on her own with five children, she hadn’t time to look out the window, never mind clean it,” Bosco answered with a disapproving edge to his voice.

“Sorry,” Constance said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

Bosco waved his hand before Constance could finish. “No, Connie, I’m sorry. I’ve been just waiting for you to complain. You’re right, it wouldn’t have taken much to clean the fuckin’ window. Look, as I said, it’s not a palace.” He held his arms out by his sides and tilted his head.

“No, it’s not, and it probably never will be, but we can do our best to make it into a home,” Constance said. They smiled at each other.

“The Penthouse.” Bosco laughed. Constance joined in, gently at first, then loudly, then hysterically, until tears ran down her face. She put her arms around Bosco and they rocked back and forth, laughing with tears streaming down their faces.

Over the following six weeks, Constance would leave the iron foundry and go straight to 4C to work on the flat. Bosco would join her there when he was finished work, and they would work shoulder to shoulder to prepare their nest. Constance scrubbed and scraped, painted and polished. Bosco hammered and sawed and heaved and planed. Until, on October 11, 1933, just two weeks before they were to be married, Bosco and some of his friends carried the iron bedstead and mattress up the forty-one steps. They assembled the frame and placed it into the largest of the two bedrooms. With this done, the two surveyed their home. In the living room the wooden floors had been sanded and polished; over them was laid a square remnant of carpet that served as a rug. The ceiling, now with three coats of white paint, gleamed back the light from the 150-watt bulb Constance had acquired from the stores of the iron foundry. The walls were painted buttercup yellow and the dado rail white. The sink now had a cupboard built around it and a scullery cabinet beside it. The copper pipe and faucet were polished within an inch of their lives and gleamed gold over the sink.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The wedding bells clanged loudly across the parish for Bosco and Constance’s wedding day. The bell-ringer, a young man named Michael O’Malley, was swinging from the bell rope with great enthusiasm. Like many of the young boys in the Jarro, Michael came from a republican family, and to him Bosco was a hero, a living legend. When he had rung out the call to sacrament, Michael hightailed it down to the vestry to dress for serving the Mass. Michael had become an altar boy at just four years of age. Now, at eight, Michael, although younger than most of the boys, was in charge of the altar boys in St. Jarlath’s. This was one wedding he wanted to serve at the altar for himself. This was the importance attached to the wedding by the locals who knew and adored Bosco Reddin.

It was the most one-sided wedding ever held in St. Jarlath’s Church. On the groom’s side there was not a seat to be had. On the bride’s side sat just four people. Three of them were waiting for confession, and the other was a wino the locals named “Pope” Charlie. He spent his time in churches drunk and shouting abuse at whatever priest was celebrating Mass. Bosco stood waiting at the altar in a suit borrowed from his uncle, a shirt borrowed from a friend, and new shoes he had bought himself.

Constance Parker-Willis knew that on the day she married Bosco, she would be thrown out of her father’s home. She was to receive no dowry, no allowance, and was to be released from her father’s will. She left her home with just the clothes on her back, with the exception of one gift. Just before she had departed, Constance’s mother came to her room. She handed Constance a large box.