The Chisellers (10 page)

Mark was having trouble making the templates from his designs. He had already discarded one complete sheet of hardboard. Sean’s shiny red face came into the light.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘Not great,’ answered Mark. ‘I can’t get these fuckin’ templates right.’ Frustration was setting in.

From his inside pocket Sean took a metal spectacle case from which he unfolded a very old pair of glasses. He put them on, clipped the box shut and inserted it back in his pocket. He was looking at the designs as he began to remove his coat.

‘Right, then. Let’s have a look at these,’ he said.

Mark smiled and gladly stood aside for the older man, who was full of confidence. Suddenly Mark felt a little less lonely. Sean pointed at the designs with a pencil.

‘This bow-back top spar here - you’ll hardly have time to do a bentwood back spar for all three of them.’ Sean looked over the rim of his glasses at Mark, tilting his head forward.

Mark had his answer ready. ‘No I wouldn’t. So I was goin’ to cut it out of the half-inch plywood. I was goin’ to cut six on the flat and nail two together for each back.’ He traced the design with his finger on the dust that lay on the design table.

Slowly Sean McHugh smiled. ‘Clever little bastard, aren’t yeh?’ he said, with a hint of admiration in his voice.

Mark laughed.

‘Mind you - these suites won’t last pissing time,’ Sean added.

‘They’re not supposed to,’ Mark replied, and both men smiled.

Sean snapped open his yardstick, ready to go to work. ‘Right, son. You make us a cup of tea and I’ll get working on these templates.’ Sean took the pencil from his ear and watched Mark walk away towards the canteen.

A couple of hours later Sean McHugh was on his third mug of tea. He had already successfully drawn four sheets of templates which Mark was now cutting on the bandsaw. It was already midnight. Sean was running the pencil down along the yardstick when the problem dawned on him. He stopped abruptly. He took the designs from the bullclip and walked over to the bandsaw where Mark was working. Mark saw him coming and pressed the stop button on the saw. When the saw died into silence, Sean said, ‘We have a problem, Mark.’

‘What?’ Mark asked, with a puzzled look on his face.

Sean laid the designs down on the bandsaw plate. He pointed to one of the drawings of the finished suites.

‘These backs,’ he began.

‘What about them?’ Mark asked.

‘There’ll be thirty-six panels and eighteen buttons in each back.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And the seat cushions - there’ll be nine panels, four buttons in each cushion, is that right?’

Mark studied the designs, then looked up at Sean. ‘Yeh, that’s right. It’s all there on the design. What’s the problem?’

Sean looked at Mark over the rim of his glasses, then slowly he removed them.

‘Who’s going to do the sewing?’ he asked slowly.

Mark closed his eyes. ‘Fuck — the sewing! Fuck!’

It was lam and cold. Mark stood outside the door of 32 Gardiner Row. The ground-floor flat was in darkness, as it had been for the ten minutes he’d been standing there. Mark had left Sean cutting out the remainder of the templates for the framework and had set off hoping to solve the sewing problem. At last he plucked up the courage and rapped on the door. Nothing stirred inside the flat. He rapped again, this time harder. There was some movement from the far side of the door and he heard the hushed tones of voices. Finally the door opened and there stood Betty Collins, wrapped in a blanket.

‘Mark Browne? What the fuck do you want this hour of the mornin?’

She obviously had gone to bed with her hair tied up, though there were now strands of hair sticking out and hanging down in all directions. She wore no make-up and she looked more than a little groggy. But no matter, at that moment to Mark Browne she was a vision of beauty!

‘I ... I have a problem, Betty,’ he managed to get out.

‘Let me guess! The turn-ups on your trousers fell down. Well, we only handle complaints between nine and five. Now fuck off!’ She began to close the door.

Mark quickly put his hand against it. ‘Betty, please. Just listen,’ he implored.

As simply as he could, Mark gave Betty a synopsis of the situation. She stood listening for twenty minutes, wrapped in the blanket and shaking a little from the chill.

‘... and so I need somebody who can sew. I thought of you.’ Mark finished. He didn’t mention, although he wanted to, that for the last forty-eight hours he’d done a lot of thinking about her.

Betty had listened to the whole story without interruption. When Mark had finished, she glanced over her shoulder then back to him, and said, ‘I have to get dressed - and collect some things. You wait here. I’ll just be a couple of minutes.’

True to her word, it was just a couple of minutes before Betty arrived out dressed, wrapped in a duffel coat, with her hair now freshly brushed. She had collected her scissors and measuring tape. The two of them walked to Wise & Co. in virtual silence.

By 5.15am Agnes Browne was up and on her way to the fruit wholesale markets, though her thoughts were with her eldest boy.

Meanwhile back in Wise & Co. Mark had completed the frames for the six single-seater chairs for the suites, and was nearly finished the first of the three-seater frames. After a short introduction to Sean McHugh, Betty had rolled up her sleeves and buried herself in the task of cutting out the patterns.

‘I’m finished!’ she announced just as Sean arrived with two mugs of tea, one for her and one for himself. He didn’t bring one for Mark, because Mark wasn’t a tea man, so to speak.

‘Good girl yourself!’ said Sean as he handed her the mug.

Cupping the mug in her hands and looking over the rim at Mark, she said to Sean, ‘Jesus, he can work can’t he!’

Sean nodded. ‘Aye. Like no-one I’ve ever seen - and I’ve seen a few hammers being swung in this place over the years. He’s an exceptional young man.’ This was said in admiration, like that of a father for a son. Mark Browne had this effect on older men. Betty turned her thoughts back to her task.

‘Mr McHugh, I need to get all this stuff back up to the flat to the machine. I’ll never be able to carry it.’

‘That’s okay, love. We can load it into the van and I’ll drive you up. Will it take long to run it up?’

‘Nah! A little more than an hour.’

‘I’ll wait with yeh so, if that’s all right?’

‘Yeh sure, no problem, Mr McHugh. We better get goin’.‘

They began to gather up the material, and had the van loaded in a couple of minutes. Sean called to Mark. ‘Mark! We’re taking this stuff up to the sewing machine. We should be back in just over an hour.’

Mark did not look up, not even the rhythm of his hammer swing was disturbed. He just called out, ‘Okay, Mr McHugh,’ and with the beads of perspiration popping out, even on his forearms, he worked on.

Forty-five minutes later Mark had the final frame completed and the webbing fixed to all nine frames. He was tired. It would be half an hour before Sean returned with Betty. He wiped his brow and strolled to the design table, sat up on the high stool and with Sean’s pencil began doodling on a blank sheet of paper. Like all soldiers when there’s a lull in the battle, fear starts to creep in.. As he doodled his mind wandered to Greg Smyth and Frank Reel, who were sleeping soundly in the Gresham hotel. What if he was wasting his time? What if they didn’t go for the deal? What if they wouldn’t even come down to the factory and look? Where would he get the fifty pounds to pay his Mammy back?

If Sean McHugh was right, unless he could convince Smyth and Reel to carry on doing business with Wise & Co., soon there would be no Wise & Co. and he would have no job. He shook his head vigorously to dispel these thoughts, and as he did he looked at what he had been doodling on the blank sheet of paper and laughed to himself. He took the piece of paper and gathering up what was left of the plywood and deal he carried the lot down to the bandsaw and began working again.

Just over forty minutes later he had replicated his doodle in wood and was writing on it with a permanent ink marker when Sean McHugh’s van pulled up outside the door. Mark smiled to himself and looked up at the clock. It was 6.20am.

By 7.15 the work was done! The three stood appraising their night’s labour.

‘You’ve done a fine job, Mark! A really fine job,’ Sean said, now a little refreshed having had an hour’s sleep in an armchair in Betty Collins’s flat. Mark stood with his arms folded. Betty reached over and laid her hand on his forearm.

‘They’re beautiful!’ she exclaimed.

It was her hand touching his arm that excited Mark more than the praise she gave his work.

‘Right!’ said Mark. ‘It’s time to get these two fellows down to have a look!’

‘Are you going straight up to the Gresham?’ asked Sean.

‘I have to go home first, clean up and change into me new outfit!’ Mark turned to Betty. ‘Betty, thanks very much — I really couldn’t have done it without yeh. Make up a bill for whatever it is and I’ll pay yeh.’

Betty gave a short laugh. ‘Mark Browne! Let me tell yeh two things! Firstly, there is no bill — it was nice to be doin’ somethin’ different, I really enjoyed it. Secondly, if you think I’m leavin’ here before findin’ out what those men think of our work, you’ve another think comin’ to yeh. Go get them, I’ll be here when yeh get back!’

Mark smiled and headed off down the factory. Sean called to him. ‘Mark — the door is this way,’ and he pointed in the opposite direction.

Mark laughed. ‘Yeh, I know, Mr McHugh! I just have to collect somethin’ to bring home.’

As Mark vanished around the comer toward the bandsaw, Sean put his arm around Betty’s shoulder and took her into the canteen for an early-morning cup of tea.

Mark struggled in the door of the flat. The object was heavier than he had expected and he was tired from carrying it all the way up from Wise & Co. under his arm. It was also awkward so he tried to manoeuvre it through the doorway with as little noise as possible. Everyone was asleep and Agnes had long since gone to work. He left it on the floor in the kitchen. Mark quickly changed out of his overalls, washed and dressed himself up once again in his new clothes. No more than fifteen minutes had elapsed since the time he entered the flat. He was now back on the street, heading for the Gresham.

At 8.15am precisely, Mark walked up the marble steps of the Gresham hotel. At that same time Cathy Browne was back home shrieking with delight and dancing around, for she had just discovered a brand new box cart in the middle of the kitchen floor with the legend ‘Flippin’ Flyer II’ drawn on the side of it.

Mark found Greg Smyth and Frank Reel in the restaurant having breakfast. They were surprised to see him. But Greg stood and extended his hand. ‘Good morning, son,’ he exclaimed. He used the word ‘son’ because he had forgotten Mark’s name.

Frank Reel rose too but he remembered. ‘Mark, how are you? What brings you here this morning?’ he asked as he shook hands warmly with Mark.

Mark liked the younger man and from the warmth of the handshake it was clear the feeling was mutual. The two men sat and Mark addressed Greg.

‘I don’t know what time you have planned to leave Dublin today, Mr Smyth, but I hope you have time to come and look at somethin’ in the factory.’

‘What is it?’ Greg asked.

‘Furniture, Mr Smyth.’

Greg Smyth put his hand over his eyes as if slightly in pain. ‘Look, Mark, I never had a problem with the quality of Wise & Co.’s furniture. I think you’re missing the point here. I really don’t think there is anything you can show me that will change our mind.’ It was obvious that he wasn’t budging.

Frank Reel looked disappointed, but obviously knew enough not to intervene. The boss is always the boss.

Mark’s voice was very calm, although inside he was starting to panic. ‘Look, Mr Smyth, Mr Wise is a good and decent man and he has being doin’ business with you for thirty years and from what you say he’s never let you down. The least you owe us is fifteen minutes. What about it?’

Greg exhaled loudly.

Frank suddenly came to life. ‘Mr Smyth, it’s on the way to the airport, we could stop off there in the taxi,’ he suggested.

After a tense couple of moments, Greg succumbed. ‘Okay,’ he said, and threw his serviette onto his plate.

‘I’ll wait outside until you’re finished,’ Mark said.

Frank stood up. ‘That’s okay, were finished anyway, aren’t we, Mr Smyth?’

Of the twenty staff that were still employed in Wise & Co., twelve were young apprentices. The other eight were made up of Sean McHugh, a designer and six craftsmen. The youngest of those eight was thirty-five years of age, the next youngest to him fifty-eight and the rest were all over sixty. When they had arrived for work that morning Sean McHugh had ushered them all into the canteen and when everyone had a mug of tea in his hand Sean began to tell them what was happening at Wise & Co. He informed them about the rapid drop in business. He told them of Mr Wise’s declining health. He gave them the details of the previous day’s meeting with Smyth & Blythe and finally he outlined Mark Browne’s efforts to rescue the company. They listened in silence. When he had finished, Sean led the lot of them like a Japanese tour group out to the three suites, which they examined closely. They sat on the chairs. They turned them upside-down. One of the craftsmen even lay on the couch, deciding to judge it as most people judge their couch - by how comfortable it is to lie on and watch TV.

Suddenly Betty Collins let out a cry from the office. ‘Mr McHugh — they’re here in a taxi.’

For some reason, inexplicable to himself, Sean McHugh cried, ‘They’re here - everybody hide!’

Even more inexplicable was the fact that everybody did. Bodies scurried in all directions. Sean ran into the office and closed the door, then suddenly realised that he was the boss. He buttoned his collar, coughed and marched out to meet the customer, whispering from the side of his mouth to Betty Collins to ‘Keep down.’

The first thing Mark noticed as he led the two men into the factory was how quiet it was. Nobody was working, the place looked like a ghost town. As he walked towards the comer where the three suites were, he looked around the factory and could feel pairs of eyes peering at him from the most unusual places. He scratched his head in wonderment but carried on none the less.