The Chisellers Page 5

  ‘No, I’m the store security, son. What do you want the manager for?’ the man asked, still trying to keep an eye on the store.

  Dermot opened the bag to reveal the folded pair of brown corduroy trousers. He looked into the bag himself and held it open for the Security Man to peep in also.

  ‘It’s these, Mister,’ he said.

  The man looked into the bag and was a little confused. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Me Mammy got them this momin’. They should be blue not brown. And she sent me up to change them.‘

  ‘Come with me, son.’ The Security Man spoke as if he were the manager. He walked Dermot up to one of the cash points at the men’s and boys’ section and drew one of the young ladies aside.

  ‘Excuse me, love. If you’ve got time would you look after him for me. I’ve got to get back to the door.’

  ‘Sure, Tom. What is it, dear?’

  Dermot proffered the bag. ‘I need to change these to navy.’

  ‘Certainly, dear. Do you have a receipt?’

  ‘Daddy said I didn’t need a receipt.’

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yeh, Daddy.’ Dermot pointed at the retreating Security Man.

  ‘Oh, you’re Tom’s little boy!’

  Dermot opened his blue eyes as wide as he could, smiled and nodded his head.

  ‘Of course, dear, come along with me. So tell me, which one are you, Barry or John?’

  ‘Barry,’ Dermot lied, and very convincingly.

  After leaving Clery‘s, both pretty pleased with themselves, Agnes and Mark crossed the street to the GPO and began to stroll up Henry Street to do some window-shopping. They talked about Rory, and how well he was doing at Wash & Blow. Mark told Agnes how excited he was about attending the meeting this coming Monday with Mr McHugh and yet how frightened he was at the same time. They discussed the move to Finglas and what it would mean to the family. They even talked about the two Cathys’ chances of winning the go-cart race the following Saturday. They talked about everything and anything - except Frankie. As they passed the entrance to Amott’s upstairs café the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and freshly cooked pastries wafted out the door.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Agnes, ‘d’yeh fancy a coffee, Mark?‘

  ‘Yeh, yeh sure, Ma. Well, tea, actually.’

  And up the stairs they went. Agnes took the shopping bags from Mark as he went to the self-service counter to get the drinks and cakes. She wandered around the seating area looking for a table where they could have a little bit of privacy, not easy to find on a Saturday afternoon. She eventually settled on a side-booth. She placed the bags on the bench seat on the right-hand side and slid herself into the bench seat on the left-hand side.

  From where Agnes sat she had a fine view of the store. Boy, is it busy, she thought. There were people milling in every direction. It was the little blond head bobbing along the racks that caught her eye - that tends to happen when you have seven children and five of them are blond. She followed the head with her eyes as it bobbed along a rail of Holy Communion jackets, then as the figure emerged she could clearly see that it was indeed her own little Dermot. He was chatting away to one of the sales assistants and they seemed to be getting on great.

  Just then Mark arrived with the tray. ‘Here we go, Ma. I got you a chocolate éclair and I got a cream slice for meself,’ he announced.

  ‘Mark, isn’t that our Dermot down there in the boys’ section?’

  Mark placed one knee on the bench seat and stretched over to the balcony to look down. ‘Where, Ma? I don’t see anythin’.‘

  Agnes now stood and pointed over to the boys’ section. ‘There. Look, talkin’ to the young one.’

  ‘Oh jayney yeh, that’s Dermo all right,’ Mark confirmed.

  ‘What’s he doin’ in here? And what’s in that bag he’s carryin’?‘

  Mark had a sinking feeling and his stomach tightened. He tried to think as quickly as he could. ‘I don’t know ... eh ... Oh yeh, he said somethin’ earlier on about goin’ down to Henry Street for a message for Mrs Egan, maybe that’s it?’

  Agnes was still looking down at Dermot. ‘Must be. Ah, fair play to him, he’s a good lad! He’d do a run for anyone.’

  The girl was most helpful. She obviously liked Tom and his ‘son’ got the red-carpet treatment. Dermot thanked the lady and again made his way back to Tom, the Security Man. He tugged his jacket. Tom turned around.

  ‘Well, son, did you get fixed up?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Yes, Mister, thanks very much.’

  As he said this, Dermot glanced back at the sales lady. As he suspected, she was staring directly at the pair of them. Dermot looked up at the Security Man and said, ‘Mister, can I tell yeh a secret?’

  The Security Man smiled. “Course yeh can, son,‘ and he stooped over.

  Dermot placed his arms around the man’s neck and whispered in his ear. ‘I still wet the bed.’

  The man looked straight into the boy’s face, puzzled, and then replied, ‘Ah, that’s no harm, son, you’ll grow out of that,’ and he patted Dermot on the head.

  From where the sales assistant was standing, it looked like Tom had just received a hug from his son. She was touched. Dermot once again looked in her direction and still she stood, looking at the pair. Dermot said to Tom, pointing at the girl, ‘That girl was really nice.’

  Tom looked in the direction of Dermot’s pointed finger and then Dermot waved at the girl. The girl waved back and for some reason, unknown to himself, even Tom waved. Tom then got back to business. ‘Okay, son, you’re fixed up now. Off you go.’

  Dermot started to move away, then turned and said, ‘Thanks a lot,’ and then just to himself he added ‘Daddy,’ and laughed as he left the store richer by one pair of corduroy trousers.

  Agnes gave Mark a running commentary on the whole scene. Mark didn’t look - he couldn’t bear to look.

  ‘He’s leavin’ yer woman now. Jaysus, yeh’d think they were best friends.’ She took a quick sup of coffee and a bite of chocolate éclair. ‘Now he’s talkin’ to the bloody Security Man.’

  Mark paled. ‘Did the Security Man call him over?’ Mark asked nervously.

  Without turning around to Mark, Agnes answered. ‘No, Dermot just walked straight over to him.’ Another sup of coffee. ‘Jaysus!’ Agnes exclaimed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s huggin’ the Security Man!’

  ‘Maybe — maybe he knows him, Ma,’ Mark offered.

  ‘Ah Jaysus, Mark. I know the girl at the checkout in Power’s Supermarket but yeh don’t see me huggin’ her.’ She tugged Mark’s sleeve.

  ‘Ah, yeh have to see this, Mark! Yer woman is wavin’ down the shop and Dermot and the Security Man are wavin’ back - it’s like somethin’ out of The Sound of bleedin’ Music.’

  Mark couldn’t take any more of this. He knelt up on the seat. ‘Where are they, Ma?’

  Agnes turned back to her coffee. ‘Too late, luv, he’s gone. I wonder what that was all about?’

  ‘I wonder?’ Mark said, and went back to his cream bun and tea, relieved in the knowledge that Dermot hadn’t been caught - yet!

  Saturday evening after tea the Browne household was very busy as everybody rushed to prepare for their night’s entertainment. Since he had begun working and got his very first wage packet, Rory had taken Dermot and Simon to the pictures every Saturday evening. Every second Saturday night Cathy would go down to Cathy Dowdall’s flat and stay overnight with her, and on alternate nights the two would stay in the Brownes‘. Tonight it was Cathy Browne’s turn to travel the couple of blocks down the road, so she was packing her toothbrush and nightie.

  Agnes had her bath and got herself ready for her weekly date with Pierre. What had got off to a rocky start three years ago had now become a firm friendship of sorts. They held hands and often kissed fondly, but it always ended there. There was absolutely no sex. In fairness to Pierre, it wasn’t for the want of trying, and Agnes came close a couple of times - but somethi
ng always went wrong at the last minute and Agnes would chicken out. It was also a question of facilities. Pierre still shared the living accommodation above his uncle’s Pizza Parlour with his uncle and two cousins, so they couldn’t go there, and needless to say a few quiet moments in the Browne home was absolutely out of the question. This reduced the possibilities to Pierre’s car, a Fiat 127 — no chance! Or to booking a hotel room. This they had tried once.

  It was a newly opened hotel in Drumcondra, The Skylon. Pierre suggested that he and Agnes have a drink there to see what it was like, and he also told her that when they got there he would have a surprise for her. For the life of her, Agnes couldn’t think what the surprise would be, so she arrived at the hotel with Pierre, full of anticipation and not a little excited. When Pierre revealed what the surprise was - that he had booked a room in the hotel for the night - Agnes was shocked, at first! But after three bottles of cider she thought the idea hilarious and began to rib Pierre for even thinking of it! Three more bottles of cider and Agnes, now becoming a little amorous, wasn’t so sure that this might not be a good idea. It took just one more bottle to convince her. Pierre was thrilled.

  ‘When you finish that bottle, we will go upstairs, yes?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Pierre,’ Agnes snapped at him as she glanced around the room to see if there was anybody she knew there.

  ‘But, my darling, I thought you said yes?’

  ‘I did say yes, but we can’t make it so obvious.’

  ‘Well, then, what shall we do, my darling?’

  Agnes thought for a moment and came up with a plan. ‘I’ll go into the ladies’ toilet. When I’m gone in you go on up to the room on your own, like you were a businessman goin’ to bed. Then when I come out of the ladies’ I’ll finish me glass of cider and I’ll go into the lift on me own and go up to the room.’

  Pierre thought about this for a moment and, although he thought it was silly - and were they in France and Agnes a French woman it would have been - he was prepared to go along with any plan as long as it meant getting Agnes up to that room. So he agreed.

  ‘Okay, my darling. The room is 213, on floor two.’

  ‘Gotcha — 213 on floor two.’

  Pierre stood and stretched his arms, and looking around gave an exaggerated yawn, then quite loudly announced, ‘Oh dear! I am such a tired businessman. I think I shall go to bed.’

  Agnes looked at him aghast. ‘What are yeh doin’, yeh gobshite? You’re not in a play! Just fuck off to bed, will yeh?‘ she whispered hoarsely.

  Quickly and without reply, Pierre scurried out of the lounge and into the lift. Agnes, in the meantime, headed for the ladies’ toilet. She felt a little woozy, so she went to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. This freshened her up a bit, but it also removed some of her make-up, so she re-applied the ‘war paint’, then, satisfied with her reflection, she left the ladies’ and went back to her drink. As she was drinking, her eyes moved from right to left around the room and when the glass was empty she very casually rose and, steadily and very nonchalantly, walked to the lift, pressed the button and entered. The doors closed, and Agnes looked at the numbered floor buttons. Aloud she said, ‘Now 213 on the first floor - no on the second floor - or was it 321? Oh Jesus, what’s the number?’

  Suddenly the lift doors slid open and Agnes jumped with fright. An American gentleman stepped in and asked, ‘Going up?’

  ‘Gettin’ out,’ replied Agnes, and left in a hurry.

  She returned to her seat and tried to think what to do next. The waitress came over and Agnes ordered another bottle of cider.

  Fifteen minutes later, while Agnes was still sitting in the lounge sipping her glass of cider, the ‘phone behind the bar rang. The barman picked it up.

  ‘Hello. Bar.’

  ‘Hello. I wonder could you do me a favour?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. If I can.’

  ‘Sitting in the lounge is a very beautiful dark-haired lady.’

  The barman looked around. ‘Eh yes, sir, I can see her from here.’

  ‘Would you ask her to join Pierre in his room — that’s room 213 as soon as she is ready?’

  ‘Well, sir, I’m not sure if I’m allowed — ’

  But Pierre interrupted him. ‘No, of course I understand, but this is okay. The lady is expecting this call.’

  The barman thought about it for a moment and then said, ‘Oh well, in that case, sir, I’ll tell the lady.’

  Agnes watched the barman as he spoke on the ‘phone. Suddenly he was looking around the lounge. He then stooped down to go out of a hatch beneath the bar into the lounge proper. He walked straight over towards Agnes. When he got about five feet from her, he nodded and smiled, she nodded and smiled back — and he walked straight past her. The barman carried on to another table just a little bit away from where Agnes was sitting. He sat down and spoke to a dark-haired woman. Whatever he was saying made the lady look very serious, then she smiled, thanked him, put her cigarettes and lighter into her handbag and left the lounge. Agnes then lost interest. She had finally figured out what to do. She would go out to the reception desk and simply ask what room Mr Pierre du Gloss was residing in.

  She finished the last of her cider and made her way out. The receptionist, although very friendly, explained that it was not hotel policy to give out room numbers on request. But she said she could put Agnes through on the phone to Mr du Gloss’s room. Agnes was happy with this, and the lady pointed to a phone booth across the lobby in which Agnes could take the call. Agnes entered the booth and closed the door. She sat on the small stool and suddenly the white ‘phone in front of her burst into life. She picked up the ’phone. The receptionist said, ‘You’re through to that room now.’

  Agnes thanked her. There was a slight click and she heard the phone ringing. It rang and rang and rang. There was no reply. Agnes let it ring until the receptionist eventually cut in and announced, ‘I’m sorry, there’s no reply from that room.’

  Again Agnes thanked her and replaced the receiver. She sat for a moment, wondering what to do, then through the glass door of the booth she saw Pierre being led through the lobby in handcuffs by female detective Jacintha Doody of the Dublin Metropolitan Vice Squad. The case never came to court and Pierre was let off with a very stiff warning.

  As she checked herself over in the mirror for this Saturday night’s date Agnes giggled to herself at the memory of that most eventful night.

  Apart from Trevor, the only member of the Browne household who wasn’t going out that night was Mark. Mark would stay in and baby-sit Trevor, as he did every Saturday night. Agnes often worried about Mark’s lack of social life, but figured that Mark would do his own thing when he was ready.

  As it turned out, her date that night would be a short one, as Pierre had to get back to the Pizza Parlour early to help with the after-pub rush. Agnes wasn’t too disappointed because she would be home in time to see the last half, and usually the best part, of The Late Late Show with Gay Byme.

  When everyone had gone out and Trevor had finally gone off to sleep, Mark opened up his text books and began to study for his upcoming test. Tonight he was reading about the use of pulpwoods in the manufacture of furniture. Plywoods, blockboard and chipboard were becoming the base materials in the upholstered furniture manufacturing business. This is of no use to me, thought Mark. He likened it to learning Irish in school - so much effort went into learning something he would not be using once school was over. Wise & Company specialised in hardwood and leather furniture. This was Mark’s forte. Still, he had to study this area because there would be questions on it in the test. ‘No knowledge ever goes to waste,’ Mr Wise had said to him, even though Mr Wise was the one who scoffed at the idea of pulpwood frames for furniture.

  But Mark’s thoughts were not totally on plywoods. He could not get Betty Collins off his mind. On the way back from their shopping trip that day, Agnes had suggested that Mark take the new pants up to Maggie Collins in Gardiner Row.
Maggie had been a seamstress in her younger years and now made a steady few bob by doing alterations from her home. Mark’s pants were about an inch too long, and Maggie, Agnes told him, would take them up in a jiffy.

  He found the building, Number 32, easily. Maggie had the ground-floor flat and as he knocked on the door Mark could hear the mechanical ‘rat, tat, tat,’ of the Singer sewing machine from behind the door. The door was opened by a woman of about forty, with hair dyed platinum blond.

  ‘I need a pair of trousers taken up,’ Mark said, without introducing himself.

  ‘Come in, son,’ Maggie invited, and stood back to allow Mark to enter. He stepped into the flat. Despite the fact that Maggie herself had opened the door and was now standing before him, Mark could still hear the sewing machine busily working away in an adjoining room. There was a beautiful aroma in the flat that could only come from sausages frying.

  ‘Show me the pants, love.’ Maggie took the bag. She unfolded the pants and looked at the bottom of the legs. ‘Turn-ups,’ she mused and then cried, ‘Betty!’

  Mark jumped.

  Suddenly the machine in the other room stopped, the door opened and out walked Maggie’s daughter, Betty.

  ‘Yeh?’ Betty asked, not looking at Mark.

  ‘Pair of pants with turn-ups. Run them up, love, will yeh? I’m in the middle of the dinner.’

  She threw the pants to the young girl. Betty still had not looked at Mark. But Mark had not taken his eyes off her. She was tall, for a girl, only just shorter than Mark, though she was two years older at nineteen. She had dark skin, brown eyes and the most beautiful white teeth Mark had ever seen. This was not the first time Mark had laid eyes on Betty Collins. Up to three years ago Mark would often see her at the parish hall. He would be doing his football training in the waste ground beside the hall and she would arrive dressed in the black beret and suit of the Irish Red Cross. What stunned him at this moment was that at that time Betty Collins seemed to be one of the least attractive girls he had ever seen. Now she stood there, a vision of beauty!