The Chisellers (9 page)

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 enough 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.

‘Ninety-six pounds ten shillings,’ Mark said simply.

‘Jaysus! Did yeh get it all?’

Mark crossed his fingers before he answered. ‘I hope so.’

Just then Cathy came tearing out of the bedroom and flung her arms around Mark’s waist. She was sobbing. He lifted her up. ‘Hey, hey, hey! What’s the matter with my princess?’

‘The Flippin’ Flyer,’ Cathy sobbed. ‘It’s dead!’

‘That feckin’ go-cart! Look at her knees - now she’ll never be a model!’ Agnes said as she went back to the cooker.

Mark smiled, and put Cathy back down on the ground. He stooped low to look in her face and wipe her tears.

‘What happened?’ he asked gently.

‘We lost a wheel half-way down the hill. It went out of control and it got smashed.’ At the thought of it, Cathy began to cry again.

Mark took her in his arms and hugged her. ‘Now, now! If the Flippin’ Flyer is broken, I’ll fix it!’

Cathy pushed back from him quickly. ‘Will yeh, Mark? Will yeh? Will yeh, really?’

‘Sure I will, no problem, chicken,’ Mark assured her.

She took him by the hand and began to drag him towards the front door.

‘Come on, Mark, I’ll show yeh,’ she said excitedly.

Mark went with her, down the stairs to the bottom floor. Beneath the stairwell was some storage space. There was a small odd-shaped door that led into it. Cathy opened the door and quickly disappeared inside. Mark could hear her grunting, then she emerged dragging a sack which she laid on its side, then grabbed the ends and tipped out the contents.

‘Holy Jesus!’ Mark exclaimed and began to rummage through the debris. All that remained of the Flippin’ Flyer was firewood.

‘What did yis hit? A bulldozer?’ he asked.

‘Can yeh fix it, Mark? Please,’ Cathy begged.

Mark placed his hands on his hips. ‘I suppose so. Give me a couple of days, I’ll have it back right as rain.’

‘A couple of days! But we can’t wait a couple of days, Mark! The knock-out round is on Wednesday - that’s the day after tomorrow. We have to go in that to get into the final on Saturday.’

‘But, Cathy, I haven’t got the time. It’ll take — ’

Cathy kicked the bundle of wood and went bounding up the stairs shouting back, ‘Forget it, it doesn’t matter.’

Mark felt terrible. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint Cathy, but then he didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep.

Chapter 6

THE CLICK FROM THE METALLIC SWITCHBOX reverberated throughout the factory. It took Mark more than an hour to clear away a comer of the factory where he could work on the project. Once the area was cleared, he then went to the huge design table and, removing the sheets of paper from his back pocket, clipped them under the bullclip of the reference board. His first task would be to draw templates of the designs he had drawn, to be copied three times. Wise & Co. always had hardboard sheets in stock specifically for this purpose. Mark manoeuvred the first hardboard sheet onto the design table and with yardstick, protractor and pencil began to lay down the first of the templates.

Some time later Mark heard the door bang closed in the distance. Then Sean McHugh’s voice cried out, ‘Mark! It’s only me.’

‘Down here, Mr McHugh, at the design table,’ Mark called back wearily.