The Chisellers (6 page)

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 PROMISED, 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.

‘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
^?
’