The Chisellers (8 page)

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!

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.’