The Chisellers Page 6

  She looked at him. ‘Oh! It’s you. Hi, Mark!’ She smiled.

  ‘Eh, yeh. How’ yeh?’ Mark reddened.

  ‘What’s your leg measurement?’ she asked.

  ‘Me leg? Why?’ Mark was flustered.

  The girl laughed. ‘I have to know how much to take up.’

  ‘I don’t know - they just need about that much.’ Mark held up his hand with the finger and thumb about an inch apart.

  She shrieked with laughter and from her back pocket took a rolled-up measuring tape. Now she blushed. She unrolled the tape and fingered it. Then she quickly vanished into the kitchen. Mark shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet. The sound of the two women mumbling was followed by a loud laugh from Maggie. Seconds later, Maggie came from the kitchen with a cigarette butt in her mouth, holding the measuring tape.

  ‘Right, son, open your legs!’ Mark did. Coughing and laughing simultaneously, Maggie measured his inside leg at thirty-four inches.

  From where he stood waiting, Mark could see in through the half-open door. Betty rocked forward each time she ran the material through the machine. She was wearing a tartan man’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the front and tail hanging over her jeans. The top three buttons of the shirt were open and each time she bent forward, Mark caught sight of the top of her breast and the lacy rim of a snow-white bra. He felt warm and clammy. His heart thumped and his stomach heaved. Yet he didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

  By the time Agnes arrived home that night from her date the boys had returned from the pictures and were in bed, though not before Mark had taken Dermot to one side and warned him of the consequences of being caught shoplifting. Agnes hadn’t even noticed the pair of blue corduroy slacks Dermot had on him that night. Dermot appeared to take this telling off on the chin, but secretly, like all thieves, he thought that he would never be caught.

  Chapter 5

  THE SHIRT COLLAR AROUND MARK’S NECK felt tight and agitated him. He had already endured the wolf whistles of the early morning ‘auld wans’ sweeping down the steps of their buildings as he walked through The Jarro. He had tried to hold a steady smile, but knew that his face was so red it nearly matched the wine-coloured jacket.

  It was Mary Cullen who spotted him first and she attracted the attention of two other neighbours, Mrs Williams and Mrs Troy. ‘Hey, girls!’ she cried. ‘Would you look who it is, Michael fuckin’ Caine! “What’s It All About, Alfie”,’ she began to sing.

  The other two women screamed with laughter and joined in the jeers.

  ‘Hey, Mark!’ Mrs Williams called. ‘Would you risk it for a biscuit?’

  ‘Go on outa that, Mark Browne,’ Mrs Troy called, ‘wiggle your arse when you go by us, yeh fine thing!’

  It wasn’t until he rounded the comer into Cathal Brugha Street and saw his reflection in a shop window that he realised how well he actually looked. He even caught one or two girls, standing at bus stops, giving him that longer-than-usual look, and began to enjoy it! Finally he was outside the Gresham hotel, his stomach churning with a mixture of nerves and excitement. At last he caught sight of Sean McHugh as he waddled his way up O‘Con- nell Street. The bald, short man with stumpy legs and an arse as big as a doormat met Mark with a beaming smile.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Paul Newman,’ Sean chuckled.

  ‘Ah stop, Mr McHugh. I feel ridiculous,’ Mark answered shyly.

  ‘Well, you look great! Just like a proper executive, young Mr Browne,’

  Sean put his arm around Mark’s waist as he guided him up the steps of the Gresham hotel. This made Mark feel good, a little more secure.

  ‘Did you call into Mr Wise this morning?’ Mark enquired.

  ‘I did, yeh, I did. I’ve only just left him. I told him you were coming with me and he was delighted,’ enthused Sean.

  ‘How is he, Mr McHugh?’

  ‘Not great, Mark, not great at all.’

  They crossed the lobby of the hotel, Sean McHugh glancing from table to table. Two gentlemen in suits sitting at a table just outside the restaurant door stood up and the older of the two waved in their direction. Mark poked Sean.

  ‘Over there, Mr McHugh. Is that them?’

  Sean returned the wave enthusiastically and advanced towards the two men. He took the older man’s hand firmly and with genuine warmth in his voice said, ‘Ah, Greg, good to see you. Welcome to Dublin!’ He turned to Mark. ‘Greg, I’d like you to meet Mark Browne, one of the new young bloods in Wise & Company. Mark, this is Greg Smyth, Managing Director of our longest-standing customer, Smyth & Blythe.’

  As he said this he looked straight into the eyes of Greg Smyth. Greg was uncomfortable. The younger man with him was introduced as Frank Reel, accountant for Smyth & Blythe. The four sat down and while Greg and Sean exchanged a little banter, mostly concerning Mr Wise’s health, the accountant waved to a waitress to order some refreshments.

  Frank Reel had without consultation with the rest of the company ordered coffee for four. Mark had never drunk coffee before. He took the odd cup of tea, maybe one or two cups a day, but wasn’t overly fond of the stuff. The coffee arrived on a silver tray and after signing the bill Frank poured out four cups. Mark had no idea what way coffee should be taken, so he watched Frank and repeated Frank’s every move. Frank dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee, Mark dropped two lumps of sugar into his. Frank poured cream into his coffee, Mark poured cream into his. He even stirred his coffee as long as Frank had stirred his. Then Mark took his first mouthful. To his great surprise he loved it! As soon as everybody had taken a mouthful of coffee and Greg and Sean had lit cigarettes, the pleasantries were over and they got down to business.

  Mark listened intently. Greg Smyth and his accountant were like a double act - they spoke uninterrupted for twenty minutes solid. Mark heard phrases like ‘market forces’, ‘purchasing fluctuations’, ‘expendability’, ‘volume selling’, none of which he understood. He did understand the thrust of where these two men were leading. Wise & Co. were about to lose a customer. Not once, Mark noted, did he hear the words ‘quality’, ‘class’ or ’reliability‘. These were three words Mr Wise had taught Mark in his very first week that were the essence of good furniture. At the end of the speech there was a short - a very short - pause when the two men looked at each other. Then Greg eventually said, ’So you can see, Sean, that we can no longer carry on the way we are. I deeply regret having to do this, but we will not be placing any more orders with Wise & Co.‘ He opened a folder and took out a white envelope which he handed to Sean. ’This, I believe, will bring our account up to date. I’m sorry, Sean.‘ And he sounded genuinely sorry.

  Sean just nodded and placed the envelope in his inside pocket. He exhaled a deep sigh and was obviously about to speak, but before he could, Mark interjected with, ‘Why not?’

  Greg Smyth looked at Mark as if he had seen him for the very first time. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Mark looked to Sean to see if he was upsetting him in any way by taking part in the conversation. Sean’s face was expressionless, so Mark returned his gaze to Greg Smyth. ‘Why will yeh not be placing any more orders with us?’

  It was the accountant who answered. ‘Mark, nobody wants expensive furniture anymore. Today’s furniture has nearly become disposable. People nowadays want to be able to change their furniture as often as they change their wallpaper. So the new trend is not quality hand-carved leather chairs that are expensive, it’s colourful, modem three-piece suites that are cheap. That’s the way the market is going; that’s the way we have to go.’

  Mark did not answer but nodded in understanding. The two older men stood up, indicating that the meeting was now at an end. They all shook hands and Sean and Mark left the Gresham. As they walked slowly down O‘Connell Street, Mark said, ’You knew that was comin‘, didn’t yeh?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Is losing Smyth & Blythe bad for us?’

  ‘Really bad, Mark. It could be the final straw.’ />
  They walked in silence for a couple of hundred yards, then Sean sighed and said, ‘I’m not looking forward to telling Mr Wise.’

  Mark stopped and put his arm on Sean McHugh’s shoulder. ‘Then don’t tell him, Mr McHugh,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What? Sure, I have to.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Mark said. ‘Just give me one day before you tell him! Please, Mr McHugh, I have an idea.’

  Sean looked into Mark’s face and in Mark’s eyes he saw something familiar. There was a fire of defiance, a refusal to believe that no matter how bad the situation was that it could not be changed. Sean McHugh had seen it before, twice. The first time was in the eyes of his hero and Commander-in-chief, Michael Collins; the second time was in 1933 in the eyes of a much younger Mr Wise. Quietly and simply, he said, ‘Okay.’

  Mark smiled. ‘You go on back to the factory, Mr McHugh. I’ll be back a bit later, I’ve gotta go and see me Mammy first.’

  It had been a quiet morning in Moore Street market, so Agnes had used the opportunity to slip into Christy’s bargain store and get herself an airmail writing pad and envelopes. It took her nearly two hours to write the letter to her sister Dolly in Canada. She’d write a couple of lines, then serve a customer, then write a couple more lines. She opened the letter with news of her great bingo Snowball win, padded it out with news of the boys and Cathy and how they were all doing. She told Dolly about the move to Finglas that now looked like it would take place within the next few weeks, and then she closed with the suggestion that now that she had a few bob to her name she might visit Dolly this summer and take young Trevor with her. She sealed and addressed the envelope, then gave Liam the Sweeper two shillings to get an airmail stamp and post the letter.

  Agnes was more than surprised to see Mark suddenly standing at her stall on the other side of the rosy red apples.

  ‘What are you doin’ here?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I need to talk to yeh, Mammy,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Is there somethin’ up with one of the chisellers?’ Agnes asked, worried.

  ‘No, no, Ma, nothin’ like that. Have yeh a minute?’

  The other stall holders were screaming. ‘Yoo hoo! Who’s the fine thing down there, Agnes?’

  Winnie the Mackerel yelled across, ‘Hey, Mark, yeh bleedin’ ride! Take me, I’m yours.’ She rolled her eyes. This was greeted with a howl of laughter around the stalls. Not that anyone in their right mind would ever dream in a moment of insanity of ‘taking’ Winnie the Mackerel, for Winnie was only short of a white tooth for a snooker set.

  Agnes let a roar at them. ‘Go on outa that, ye’r embarrassin’ the chap.‘ But really she was pleased at the reaction and proud of her son who in his new outfit could have been a film star out of Hollywood. She smiled at Mark. ’Come on around this side of the stall, love, and we’ll have a chat.‘

  Mark made his way around to the back of stall and Agnes pulled up an empty case for him to sit on. She sat on her milk crate. ‘So, what’s up, love?’

  ‘I need to borrow fifty pounds off yeh, Ma.’

  ‘Fifty pounds? Jaysus! Am I allowed to ask what it’s for?’ Agnes was taken aback.

  ‘Of course yeh are, but honestly, Ma, if I was to take the time to tell yeh the whole story the two of us would have beards.’ Quickly he gave her the broad outline of the situation. ‘The bottom line is I’m gonna try somethin’ that I hope will help Mr Wise hang on to this valuable customer,’ he finished. ‘Now, I have fifty pounds meself, but I need another fifty to get what I need.’ He waited expectantly.

  Agnes asked no more questions. In his seventeen years Mark had never asked Agnes for one single penny. Mind you, to start with fifty pounds was a bit of a shocker, but her faith and trust in the young man was infinite. She delved into her handbag and withdrew a fifty-pound note.

  Mark’s eyes opened wide. ‘Jesus, Ma, I didn’t expect you to have it here and now. Don’t tell me you’re carrying that money around with yeh all the time?’

  ‘Nah, I just put that fifty in me bag ’cause it made me feel good. Yeh know, walkin’ around town with fifty quid in your bag, it’s a nice feelin‘. I have the rest hid at home in one of me suede boots in the wardrobe.’

  ‘Good — and keep it hid,’ Mark said emphatically.

  Mark took the fifty-pound note, kissed his mother on the cheek and was off about his very important business. He went to the Browne flat in James Larkin Court where he picked up his own fifty pounds. He took out a blank work pad and pencil, and spent his morning sketching page after page. In a few hours he had finished three different designs for three suites of furniture.

  ‘We should use a rope!’ exclaimed Cathy Browne. She was sitting on the tiny wall that surrounded Mountjoy Square, using the railings as a back rest. She had her elbows on her knees and her head was cupped in her hands. She was wearing a serious look of contemplation as she stared at the go-cart. Written on the side of the cart was ‘Flippin’ Flyer’. Sitting beside her in an identical pose was her best friend and driver Cathy Dowdall.

  ‘Nah! I’ll use me feet. I’m better steerin’ with me feet.’

  ‘I’ll tell yeh what.’ Cathy Browne stood up. ‘We’ll try one run with the rope and then we’ll try one with your feet and we’ll see which is the fastest — okay?’

  Cathy Dowdall was impressed with this suggestion and between them they began fixing the rope to the front axle. When it was firmly in place they pulled the cart over to the top of Fitzgibbon Street, the site of next Saturday’s go-cart race. The course would run from the traffic lights to a white chalked line that would be drawn just past Fitzgibbon Street police station.

  Cathy Dowdall climbed on board and gripped the rope tightly, lacing it through her fingers as if she were holding the reins of a thoroughbred stallion. Cathy Browne stood behind her, hands placed firmly on the other Cathy’s shoulders and a look of fierce concentration on her face - like she was going to have a shite any minute.

  ‘Ready — steady - go!’ Cathy Dowdall screamed, and with a huge grunt Cathy Browne launched the cart.

  Flippin’ Flyer was living up to its name and making great speed down Fitzgibbon Street. Cathy Dowdall had her eyes squinted up and her tongue sticking out one side of her mouth, and was crouched down in a pose of grim determination. For a brief moment she wondered what the object was as it flew past her on her right-hand side. When she heard the loud scraping sound and saw Cathy Browne tumble head-over-heels, she quickly realised it was one of her back wheels. The cart slewed sideways off the footpath, throwing Cathy Dowdall into the gutter. The cart proceeded down the hill, flipping over and over, as splinters of wood flew in all directions. It came to a sudden halt at a post which held a sign that warned of an oncoming junction. There was a loud bang and the body of the cart snapped in half.

  The two girls rose slowly to their feet. They were standing thirty feet apart. Cathy Browne had blood streaming from her knee-cap, and a strip of material hung down from her torn skirt. Cathy Dowdall was in a worse state. Both her knees and both elbows were bleeding, and blood trickled from a cut just above her left eye. She stood staring at the debris that was once the Flippin’ Flyer, her bottom lip quivering in her pale face. She turned to look at Cathy Browne. She too stood, hands by her sides in shock, tiny rivulets of tears running down her cheeks.

  Mark arrived back at Wise & Co. at 3pm. Although he was wearing his work clothes, instead of going straight to his bench he went to Sean McHugh’s office. There he outlined what he intended to do and made two requests of Sean. One was for the rest of the afternoon off, the other was for the keys of the factory, so he could return after six o‘clock when everyone had gone home. As he handed over the keys, Sean McHugh shook his head, astonished at the young man’s enthusiasm.

  ‘I wish I had your energy, young Mark Browne. You’ll have your own factory some day, I’m sure of it!’

  Mark took the keys with a smile and replied, ‘Maybe you’re right, Mr McHugh. But when I do I hope I’m lucky en
ough to get a foreman like Mr Wise has here.’ He winked at the old man, dropped the keys into his pocket and headed off for his afternoon’s shopping.

  His first port of call was Noyek’s timber yard in Parnell Street. Here he purchased four sheets of eight-foot by four-foot half-inch marine plywood and ten ten-foot lengths of two-by-two rough deal. The lot cost him £26 and Mark wrote this amount down in his notebook. It was important for him to keep track of exactly how much this exercise was going to cost. The company agreed to deliver the timber to Wise & Co. within the hour. It was only a ten-minute walk from there to Zhivago Upholstery Supplies in Capel Street. It took some time to pick out what he needed here, mainly because of his inexperience. He looked first at the covering materials. Trying to visualise the finished product in his head, he eventually chose a light tan leatherette, and two moquettes, one mink grey and the other whiskey brown. He needed twenty yards of each and at nineteen shillings a yard this represented his biggest outlay of £57. For seat cushions Zhivago had a choice of four-inch or five-inch thickness. There was a shilling in the difference. Mark figured the extra fifteen shillings was worth it, and took fifteen of the five-inch cushions. He then chose forty yards of one-and-a-half inch foam sheeting at three shillings a yard. This cost him £6. Other small miscellaneous items, like wax thread, circular needles, and a hundred button shells, cost him a further £1/15/ — . Again the company agreed to deliver to Wise & Co. before closing time at half-past five. Mark’s total spend was £96/10/ — . His shopping done, Mark arrived home for his tea with the family at quarter-past five. As soon as he had finished his tea the work would begin.

  As he entered the flat, Agnes came from the kitchen to meet him in the hallway.

  ‘Well, how did yeh do?’ she asked.