The Chisellers Read online

  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!’

  Pat Muldoon switched off his ball machine and announced, ‘We seem to have a number of checks in the hall. Would everybody except the checkers please sit down and would the checkers please hold their card in the air.’

  When the room had settled, there were two people left standing in the hall. Agnes looked across the room at the other checker. She knew her. It was was Pauline Dunne and she too was from The Jarro. She had five children, two of them grown up and three youngsters, and her husband had fecked off five or six years previously with the cleaner from Foley’s pub. They’d gone to England. It was the talk of the area at the time. Pauline had just carried on and made a few bob for herself by filling the gap the young girl had left in Foley‘s, where Pauline was now a valued member of staff.

  Both women were shaking. Agnes smiled nervously at Pauline and Pauline returned the smile along with a little wave.

  Both checks were adjudged to be correct and the record Snowball of £620 was divided equally between the two women. To the delight of Agnes’s group, the bingo organisers also gave a five-pound note to each of the five in Agnes’s group and to the five people sitting around Pauline Dunne as a winning bonus. The smoked cod and chips never tasted as good as they did that night on the walk back to 92 James Larkin Court, and as if in repayment for the five-pound notes the entire group left Agnes to her front door to ensure that she got home safely. She invited them in for a cup of tea, but they all declined. As soon as she entered the flat she put the kettle on and sneaked into the boys’ bedroom. She noticed Frankie’s bunk was empty, then she leaned into the middle bunk and shook Mark.

  ‘Mark, Mark, love - wake up.’

  Mark woke gently. He had his back to her so he had to look over his shoulder to see who was shaking him. Once he recognised his mother he turned slowly. ‘Mammy, are yeh all right?’

  ‘I’m grand, love! Come out to the kitchen, I want to show you something.’

  ‘Is Frankie in trouble?’

  Agnes shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no it’s nothin’ like that. I want to show you somethin’ good!’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Well, come on, then.’ She waited for him.

  There was a moment’s silence before Mark said, ‘Ma, I have nothin’ on me.’

  Agnes jumped. ‘Oh sorry, love. I’ll be in the kitchen. I’ll make a cup of tea. Follow me out.’

  Agnes made a swift exit, reflecting on her way how short the time was between a younger Mark saying, ‘Mammy, why have I got hair on me willie?’ and now, ‘Mammy, wait outside, I’ve nothing on.’ It seemed to have been particularly short for Mark.

  Mark was still a bit groggy when he came into the kitchen, though his eyes opened wide when he saw the six huge fifty-pound notes and the tenner spread across the table. He froze and stared at them. Then it dawned on him. ‘You won the fuckin’ Snowball!’

  ‘Mind your language, son!’

  ‘Sorry, Ma. Congratulations!’

  He took her in his arms and snuggling his nose between her earlobe and her neck squeezed her tightly. Agnes closed her eyes and thought he might look like a man, he might talk like a man, but he still hugged her like a child.

  Mark sat down and began to drink the tea his mother . had made. For a while the two of them just sat in silence staring at the money.

  ‘Three hundred and ten pounds!’ Mark said, and he giggled.

  ‘Yeh!’ Agnes giggled too.

  ‘What are yeh goin’ to do with it, Ma?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yeh don’t think I’ve just been sittin’ around plannin’ how to spend the Snowball, do yeh?’

  They heard the letterbox open and both of them looked at the door. Frankie’s nicotine-stained fingers poked in and wrapped around the piece of wool that held the door key. Slowly the key began to rise until it disappeared out the letterbox. Quickly Agnes gathered up the money and moved to the sink where her handbag was. She had the money put away and the handbag snapped shut before the front door opened. Frankie closed the door and pulled the key back in the letterbox. As he entered the kitchen he was a bit startled to find Agnes and Mark sitting drinking tea. Agnes looked him straight in the face. Mark turned his head away and looked at his mug of tea.

  ‘What’s up?’ Frankie asked. There was a touch of a slur in his words.

  Agnes seized the opportunity. ‘I’ll tell you what’s up, son! The game is up - for you!’

  ‘What d’yeh mean?‘

  ‘You’ve been expelled from school.’

  ‘Big deal - so what?’

  Mark’s head snapped up from his tea. ‘Don’t speak to Mammy like that!’ His voice was even but firm.

  Frankie held his gaze for a few moments, then backed down. Skinhead or not, Frankie had no intention of mixing it with the biggest seventeen-year-old in The Jarro. He began to shift from leg to leg uneasily.

  ‘I hated that school anyway. The teachers picked on me every chance they got.’

  ‘Well, from the amount of times you’ve been in school they’ve had precious little chance,’ said Agnes.

  Mark went back to staring at his tea. He had often seen Agnes give Frankie a dressing-down before. Sometimes he felt they were just for his benefit, a kind of mock telling-off. Frankie would apologise and tomorrow it would all be forgotten. Frankie would then return to doing his own thing in his own way until the next dressing-down.

  Agnes lit a cigarette. As she blew out the match and placed it in the ashtray, Frankie went to walk past the kitchen table to the bedroom.

  ‘Where are yeh goin’?‘ Agnes asked him.

  He stopped and half-turned. ‘To bed,’ he replied in a tone that suggested she shouldn’t be asking him such stupid questions.

  ‘I’m not finished yet.’ She took a sip of tea.

  Frankie turned back to face his mother. ‘Go on, then,’ he said, ready now to endure the rest of the routine.

  ‘Here’s the deal, Francis.’ Now she looked him straight in the eye. ‘Now that you’re outa school you have two weeks to get yourself a job and start bringin’ in some money to this house.’

  ‘Or else?’ Frankie asked, tryin’ to hurry things up.

  ‘I’ll tell yeh or else, Mister! Or else yeh find yourself somewhere else to live!’

  Slowly Mark raised his head from his mug of tea to look at his mother. He couldn’t believe his ears, but he knew from the look on her face that she was deadly serious.

  Agnes went on. ‘The only people in this house who don’t pay their way are those who are bein’ educated. Now, if you don’t want to be educated that’s fine, get a job and pay your way, or else — out.’ She jerked her thumb in the direction of the door.

  Frankie stared at her speechless, then made to reply, but before he could Agnes simply said, ‘Good night, Francis,’ and took another drag of her cigarette.

  Frankie stumbled into the bedroom, reeling from the shock of Agnes’s pronouncement.

  Mark stared at his mother. She was shaking and her eyes were filling up. She caught Mark’s look and as if by way of explanation she said, ‘If it was just me I wouldn’t mind, Mark. But I’m not havin’ the entire household upset by one bastard. It took me fourteen years to get rid of the last one!’ She stubbed out her cigarette.

  Mark still stared at her. ‘You wouldn’t,‘ he simply said.

  Agnes stood up and said very firmly, ‘You bloody watch me!’

  Chapter 4

  THE NEXT DAY, SATURDAY, AS PR
OMISED, Agnes took Mark down to Clery’s. Having never bought a suit for himself before, Mark of course didn’t know which way to look or what to try. Agnes herself couldn’t be described as a slave to fashion, but from her dates with Pierre she had picked up enough from looking at how he dressed to know what looks good on a man. She chose a white cotton tailor-fit shirt, a pair of beige cavalry twill trousers, a grey and wine striped tie and what can only be described as a double-breasted blazer, in the style of the Beatles, with its high, up-turned wing-style collar. It was wine with gold buttons. Agnes insisted on paying for the ensemble, and the lot cost her just over £35. Mark argued with her, insisting that he pay the bill as he had over £60 saved, but Agnes stuck to her guns, delighted to treat Mark to his first business-meeting outfit. However, she did let him pay for the shoes himself. He chose a pair of all-leather Black-thorn brogues, which alone cost £11.

  Meanwhile up in Henry Street, young Dermot was doing a little bit of shopping of his own. Just a bit of gear he needed to keep his wardrobe up-to-date. Unlike Mark with his savings, or Agnes with her bingo win, Dermot hadn’t a penny to his name. He was out for an afternoon’s shoplifting.

  He decided on a pair of navy-blue corduroy trousers in Amott’s. His plan was simple. He wandered through the store for about thirty minutes before stealing his first item. This was an empty brown-paper bag with the words ‘Amott’s Store Dublin’ written across it. Armed with this, he went to the boys’ section where he picked out a pair of brown corduroy trousers in his own size, 26inch waist. Dermot was an independent shopper, he had his own methods. He folded the trousers carefully and slipped them into the Amott’s bag, and then made his way straight to the Security Man at the main door. Dermot tipped the man on the arm and the Security Man turned around and looked down at the blond-haired, blue-eyed boy with the babyish smile, who looked like an innocent twelve-year-old.

  ‘Excuse me, Mister, are you the manager?’ Dermot asked, full of innocence.