The Chisellers Read online

  ‘I told yeh - in Canada.’

  ‘Yes, but whereabouts in Canada?’

  ‘Oh sorry, luv.’ Agnes began to root in her handbag and extracted Dolly’s letter. She read the address aloud. ‘1202 Ironwood Court.’

  Tim nodded at the lady slowly in a silent gesture for her to go on with the rest of the address but she didn‘t, she just looked again and smiled.

  ‘And where is Ironwood Court?’

  Agnes was now getting towards the end of her tether. ‘In fuckin’ Canada.’

  Tim made a gentle tug at the letter. Agnes hung on.

  ‘May I have a look at the address, please?’ he asked, exasperated.

  Reluctantly Agnes let him have the letter, but folded it in half before handing it over so he couldn’t read the whole page.

  Tim said aloud. ‘Ah! I see - in Toronto in Canada.’

  Agnes nodded her head. ‘Good man.’

  Tim bent under the counter to get himself a fare-and-route manual. He placed the huge book on the counter and began flicking through the pages. He eventually stopped at a page and ran his finger down a column.

  ‘Right, then. You could go by Geneva.’ He looked up.

  Agnes thought for a moment. ‘Geneva? Is that like a jumbo?’

  ‘No, Geneva is in Switzerland.’

  ‘I want to go to Can-a-da for God’s sake.’

  ‘You will be going to Canada - but if I send you through Geneva it would be the most cost-effective way.’

  ‘But I’ll get to me sister’s?’

  Tim smiled a broad smile. He wished this woman would just disappear. ‘You will of course, madam. Have you decided on a date yet?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Ah! So, really, you’re just looking for the fare?’

  ‘No, no, I have the fare, I just need to know the price.’

  ‘I can get you a charter price of £199 return - that’s really good value, believe me.’

  That sounds grand. Yeh, that’s for me. I’ll be bringing me son as well, he’s dying to meet his new uncle. He’s a Canadian, yeh know, bank manager.‘

  ‘And how old is he?’

  ‘About forty-one, I think. Let me see ...’

  ‘Your son is forty-one?’

  ‘No! His uncle is forty-one. Me son is only eight.’

  Tim Donegan had had enough. ‘Well, once he’s below twelve he’ll get a fifty percent reduction. That’s half price. So, there you have it. When you have a date, drop in and see us and we’ll look after you.’

  ‘What’s your name, luv’.

  ‘My name? Eh Tim, Tim Donegan.’

  ‘Grand, Tim, I’ll ask for you the next time I come in, because I couldn’t go through all them questions again.’

  Agnes smiled, gathered her bag and left the travel agent’s office. As soon as she was gone Tim Donegan put on the kettle for a hot cup of tea and took a valium.

  Chapter 9

  FRANKIE BROWNE SAT ON THE SMALL two-foot wall that surrounded St Jarlath’s church. Beside him, down behind the wall, three other skinheads were playing poker. Although a keen poker player himself, Frankie didn’t want to join the boys in their game today, his mind was elsewhere. He had just ten days of his mother’s deadline left and still had nowhere to go. He had no intention of getting a job. Jobs were for ‘mugs’. He was no mug; he was too smart to be a mug. He thought about going to London — he had heard London was a great town for scams. Bunty Flynn said his brother was in London for three years and was signing on the dole at six different offices, making nearly £200 a week. That’s the kind of money Frankie was interested in, real money. He took a last drag on the cigarette and flicked the butt towards the curb. Just then from around the side of St Jarlath’s church another skinhead, ‘Copper’ Cullen, came running. He was breathless by the time he reached the group.

  Frankie stood up. ‘What’s up, Copper?’

  ‘The lads - the lads have a queer cornered up Peck’s Lane. Come on!’

  The card game was abandoned and the five of them took off around the side of the church. Peck’s Lane was just a minute’s run from where they had been. As they came to the entrance of the lane they could see six of their skinhead friends milling around a slumped figure. Because the figure was now on the ground the gang resigned themselves to just booting the young man.

  Frankie was the last of the five to join the attacking gang. As he arrived into the group he saw a gap in their legs and rammed his boot through the space straight into the back of the figure. This elicited a sharp yelp from the young man and a whoop of joy from Frankie. Some of the others stood back to let Frankie have a good go. As he stood over the body he could see clearly that the left arm was broken, with the wrist bent backwards, the head was matted with blood, and what had probably been fairly decent clothes were now in tatters. He picked the back of the victim’s neck for his next target and drew his boot back. As he did so the body whimpered. For a moment Frankie hesitated - there was something about that whimper. It was babyish, and he recognised it! He had heard it before years ago. He had heard it just after his father had died and he and the other Browne boys still shared one bed. He leaned down, took the shoulder of the body, and turned it towards him to see the battered face of a barely conscious Rory Browne. Before he passed out, Rory said simply, ‘Frankie?’

  ‘So what do you think?’ Mark asked, unsure that he had done the right thing.

  The two older men didn’t reply. They continued to walk around the dusty shop, glancing at the ceiling, stomping their feet on the floor. Mark looked at Betty. She was linking his arm. She gave him a little squeeze and smiled.

  ‘The rent is only £80 a month and we can do most of the fitting ourselves,’ Mark went on.

  Still there was no reply from either Sean McHugh or Benjamin Wise. Sean had both hands thrust into his pockets, and Mr Wise had a hand up each opposite sleeve and looked as if he was wearing a muff. Eventually Mr Wise spoke.

  ‘Eighty pounds a month?’

  ‘Yeh, eighty pounds a month.’

  Mr Wise turned to Sean. ‘That’s not bad, Sean, is it?’

  ‘Not bad at all, Mr Wise. Not bad at all.’

  Mark moved from Betty’s side towards the two men and as he did he said, ‘It’ll give us our own retail outlet - just for the class furniture, the hardwood stuff.’

  ‘And you’re going to call it what? Tell me again, Mark.’ Mark spoke loudly and boldly. ‘Wise & Co. Bespoke Furniture.’

  Again Mr Wise turned to Sean and spoke to him as loudly as Mark had spoken. ‘Bespoke Furniture, Sean! I like that. What do you think?’

  Sean smiled. ‘I think it’s a great idea, Mr Wise. You and me run the shop, leave the factory stuff to Mark.’

  Mr Wise did not reply. Instead, he looked at Mark, standing there, tall, broad and handsome. He envied the boy his youth and his energy. Of course it was a great idea. The young man waited expectantly. Mr Wise removed his hands from his sleeves and extended his arms sideways, pushing his palms in the air as if he were making an offering. ‘Well, young Mark Browne, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a shop!’

  Mark smiled broadly and now launched into his plans for the shop, taking Mr Wise by the arm and showing him each of his ideas for the layout, inch by inch. Mark was in full flight when a rapping at the front door stopped his gallop. All three men turned to see young Tom Lewis, an apprentice from the soft furnishing side of the business, standing breathless at the front door, pointing to the lock and mouthing the words, ‘Open the door.’

  It was Betty who opened it. Tom pushed straight past her to Mark’s side. ‘Mark, your Mammy’s been on the ’phone to the factory. You’ve to go down to St Patrick’s hospital, your brother’s had an accident.‘

  Mark paled. ‘Which brother? Did she say which brother?’

  ‘Rory - she said it was Rory.’

  Without another word to the elderly gentlemen or to Betty, Mark left what was to be Wise & Co.’s new retail outlet like a bullet from a gun. He began
to feel light-headed as his feet pounded towards St Patrick’s general hospital.

  By the time Mark arrived at the hospital Rory had been shifted from Casualty to Intensive Care. Confused, Mark walked the corridors as quickly as he could trying to find Intensive Care, and luckily he bumped into Simon. Simon was pushing a trolley, wearing the green housecoat of a hospital porter.

  ‘Simon, what’s happening?’

  ‘Ja ... Ja ... Jesus, Ma ... Mark! He’s rea ... really bad.’

  Mark was anguished. ‘Oh no! Where’s Intensive Care?’

  ‘Co ... co ... come on, I’ll show you.’

  Just a couple of minutes later Mark was standing by the bedside of his younger brother Rory, along with his mother, Dermo, Cathy, Simon and little Trevor. Rory looked dreadful. Both his eyes were puffed up, and were black and closed.

  Agnes told Mark the full extent of the damage. ‘His nose is broken, and his left arm. He has three fractured ribs.’ She sobbed heavily between sentences. ‘He has stitches under his left eye and over his right eye, as well as fourteen stitches in his back. They could have killed him.’ Agnes began to cry uncontrollably.

  Mark took her in his arms and held her tightly. He spoke gently into her ear. ‘Mammy, he’s okay now, he’s safe. You’re just upsetting the kids.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, luv. I just can’t believe it!’

  ‘Shush! It’s okay, Ma, I’m here now. Look, you take Trevor home and start the dinner, and we’ll be along shortly after yeh. Go on! He’s okay now, he’s fine.’

  Agnes didn’t reply, but held her handkerchief to her eyes and nodded her head. She went to Rory’s bedside and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. Through swollen lips, Rory muttered, ‘Thanks, Ma.’

  ‘I’m going home to get the tea for the kids, I’ll be back later luv, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Ma.’

  Agnes took Trevor and left the hospital. Mark sat on the edge of Rory’s bed and leaned down closer to him. Rory looked up into Mark’s face. Mark smiled and winked. Rory felt safe; he blinked and as he did two huge tears fell from his eyes.

  ‘So, was it skinheads?’ Mark asked.

  Rory simply nodded.

  ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Eight or ten,’ Rory mumbled.

  ‘The bastards! In packs like wolves.’ Mark was struggling to control his anger. He placed his hand gently on Rory’s hand and held it firmly but not too tightly. ‘Did you recognise them, Rory?’

  Rory looked into Mark’s eyes a little longer than he should have, then shook his head and mumbled, ‘No.’

  Mark slowly nodded his head and then turned to Dermot. ‘Dermo, you bring Cathy with yeh and head for home. Tell Mammy I’ll be along in a few minutes, I just want to talk to Rory on me own, okay?’

  Dermot didn’t want to go but acceded to his brother’s wishes. ‘Well, all right, but I know what youse two are goin’ to talk about, Mark, and if you’re goin’ after them I want in on it. He’s my brother as well, yeh know,’ Dermot said as he picked up Cathy’s coat.

  Mark smiled and put his arm around Dermot’s neck. He pulled him close in a mock strangulation. ‘Okay, tough guy. Don’t you worry, you’ll be there.’

  ‘I mean it,’ Dermot insisted.

  ‘I know you do and so do I, Dermo, I promise. Now go on off with yeh. Get Cathy out of here.’

  When the two children had disappeared out the ward door Mark turned his attention again to Rory. ‘You recognised them, didn’t yeh, Rory?’

  Rory did not reply, nor did he nod or shake his head, and his eyes started to fill up.

  ‘Were they locals? From our area?’

  Rory began to sob loudly, his body quivering as he gasped for breath.

  Mark leaned down and hugged him. ‘Shush! Take your time, take it easy. I’m not trying to upset yeh, I just want to know, that’s all. Calm down.’

  In a few moments Rory had calmed down and the crying had been reduced to sniffles. He gave a short cough to clear the phlegm that always accompanies sobbing. Mark leaned very close to him, took both his shoulders in his hands and spoke firmly but gently, all the time looking into Rory’s eyes.

  ‘Who was it?’ Mark said it in a way that demanded an answer.

  Rory’s lips began to quiver and the answer trickled out. ‘It was Frankie.’

  Mark’s grip tightened automatically and he actually hurt Rory, who gave a little groan. Mark’s face, which had been pale, was now blue. He stood up quickly. ‘I’ll see yeh later, Rory.’ Mark spun on his heel and left St Patrick’s hospital, a dangerously angry young man.

  Mark did not so much enter the flat as explode into it. He looked fit to kill. Cathy, Trevor and Simon were sitting on the sofa watching the television, and all three jumped simultaneously and sat gaping at the sight of this raving lunatic that resembled their brother. Mark moved swiftly to the kitchen area. Dermot had the frying pan on the cooker and was putting sausages onto it.

  ‘Where’s Frankie, Dermo?’

  ‘Frankie? He’s not here.’ There was a tremor in Dermot’s voice. Mark went to the bedroom. The first thing that caught his eye was the second drawer from the top in the chest of drawers, which was pulled out and empty. Mark yanked open the door of the wardrobe, and it too was empty - everything gone, including Mark’s new businessman’s outfit.

  ‘The bastard!’

  Mark returned to the kitchen. Dermot stood aghast, with a half a pound of Haffner’s sausages hanging from his left hand like a giant pearl necklace. The other three children, equally shocked and not a little frightened, peered in from the TV room.

  ‘Where’s Mammy?’ Mark asked Dermot.

  ‘She’s ... she’s in her room ... her bedroom.’

  Mark spun around and went to his mother’s bedroom door. He rapped lightly but quickly and opened the door. Agnes was sitting on the bed. Her shoulders were slumped and she slowly turned her head around to Mark. She had been crying. Mark stood in the doorway.

  ‘Are you all right, Mammy?’

  Agnes didn’t answer her eldest son. Instead, she lifted up her left hand. She was holding a suede boot. Slowly she turned the boot upside-down. It was empty.

  At that moment the B&I ferry Hibernia was just passing the Kish, the last lighthouse ship on the Irish coast. The ferry was heading for England. So was Frankie Browne.

  Chapter 10

  THE WEEKS FOLLOWING FRANKIE’S DEPARTURE were difficult for Agnes. The situation had left the younger children bewildered and her eldest boy Mark a very angry young man. She tried to cope with Mark’s anger while at the same time coming to terms with her own sadness at the loss of a son, black sheep or not. Naturally she was angry with Frankie, and yes she was bitterly disappointed that her Canada trip would now not take place. But her most overwhelming feeling was a kind of sadness that only a mother can know at the loss of a son. For that’s how she perceived it, that she had indeed lost one of her precious boys, and in tragic circumstances. No amount of comforting from her friends who told her she was better off without him could lessen the impact of her loss. Her heart was scarred.

  Mark burned his anger off by working harder, and redoubled his efforts at Wise & Co., and within two months had the new store open and trading. Within an hour of Wise & Co. Bespoke Furniture opening its doors it took its very first order. Mrs Patricia Kearney, wife of the good doctor Matthew Kearney of Seafield Road in Clontarf, placed an order for a reproduction Edwardian dining-room suite. Sean McHugh and Mr Wise fussed over the good lady like doting professors, although when she had left the store they giggled and clapped like little schoolboys.

  ‘I thought I handled that very well, Sean, didn’t you think so?’ Mr Wise remarked, looking at himself in a dressing-table mirror and straightening the bright red bow-tie he now wore with his white shirt and navy blazer. He had decided that the shop owner should dress like a gentleman.

  Sean was sitting at the bureau, writing Mrs Kearney’s order into the order book, including in it the dimensions, size, and s
tyle of the unit. ‘We should have done this years ago Mr Wise, we’re naturals, born salesmen!’

  ‘True, Sean, true. Do you know, Sean, I could sense what she wanted and it was just a case of steering her in the right direction.’

  ‘Yes, well, we -’ Sean began.

  ‘Do you know, Sean, I’ve always had a way with women. I mean that of course in the nicest possible way,’ Mr Wise interrupted Sean.

  ‘Yeh! Sure, you’re brilliant,’ Sean said flatly.

  Mr Wise was much too excited to notice Sean’s annoyance at his constant use of the word ‘I’ instead of ’we‘, just then. But later, when Sean had gone up to the factory with the order slip to Mark, and as Mr Wise sat in the quiet shop alone, it dawned on him how in his excitement he had excluded his long-serving employee, and friend, from the celebrations of the sale. So he left the shop for fifteen minutes, and locked the door behind him, putting up a note saying ’back shortly‘. He slipped into a shop just a couple of doors down from Wise & Co. Bespoke Furniture.

  When Sean arrived back from the factory Mr Wise was dealing with a rather posh lady customer. She held a photograph in her hand and was trying with some difficulty to explain to Mr Wise exactly what she required. As Sean entered the store, the tiny bell on the door clanged. Mr Wise spun around, and with a very grandiose gesture he said to the lady, ‘Ah now, Mrs Dolan, saved by the bell!’

  The woman looked up at Sean over her half-moon glasses. Mr Wise walked her towards Sean.

  ‘This is Mr Sean McHugh, the store manager. If anyone can help you it’s Mr McHugh, isn’t that right, Sean?’

  Sean removed his brown derby hat in deference to the lady, and holding it against his chest with his left hand he half-bowed to her. ‘What’s the problem, madam?’ Sean asked and immediately looked at Mr Wise, who smiled and winked at him.

  The lady showed the photograph to Sean. He instantly recognised the piece of furniture in the black and white shot. ‘This is a Louis XIV tallboy,’ he pronounced.

  ‘Yes it is!’ the lady chirped, delighted that she was now speaking to an expert. ‘I’m looking for the thingie that goes underneath.’