Memorial Day in America.

 I wrote this some time ago and I am publishing it again as it reminded me of the LA I used to know, the LA I hope returns one day and there it is above.

Memorial Day in America is a national holiday; what you would call in Britain a bank holiday, and when I first moved there I would go to a big house in the San Fernando Valley (The Valley) to celebrate with a friend of a friend.

The friend was a guy called Hank; everybody called him Hank but his real name was Chaim – pronounced Hime, with that guttural sound on the aitch – but people called him Hank. It wasn't that he wasn't proud to be Jewish but Hank was easier for goys to remember and pronounce.  

Now 'goy' is a Yiddish word and if there was one thing I liked about Hank it was his use of Yiddish; I learned what a schnorrer was, a schlemiel, a schlepper and all the other uses of words not so complimentary but colourful and interesting.  

I also got used to hearing those words from his other friends and when I went to the world première of the movie Showgirls (don't ask) with him I met all the guys in the producer's office and learned their humour too.

When they heard my accent they'd say 'Where you fram – Joysey??'

In fact if there's one thing I miss about LA it's the Jewish humour – not Jewish jokes but Jewish humour – you know: Woody Allen, Seinfeld etc. 

The Jews here in Britain, seem to play gentiles ever since David Kossoff died. The closest thing Britain ever got to a Jewish series, since Never Mind the Quality, Feel the Width was a series made by Indians called Goodness Gracious Me which had that fish out of water, matriarchal, Italian/Jewish/Irish feel to it, even though it was from a country so far away.

Back to memorial day and my pal Hank.

I went to the house twice in the valley and it was the same story each time; when we arrived we met Hank's pal and he would be sitting in the big house by himself. He would take us in to the rear of the house where there would be loads of food and drinks all set out on a garden table next to the pool.

'The others will be here soon' he would say 'Hey Chris – when we have time maybe you can explain to me the rules of cricket.'

And I would say 'They're quite simple it's . . . '

'When we got time' he'd say; then we would sit around and take a drink.

A little while later his daughter would arrive, by herself, and sit at the table. She had the same conversation each time and that was to do with the 'valley' seceding from Los Angeles.

That's all she was interested in and, in fact, one of the years they had an election and the people of the valley decided to stay in Los Angeles.

After that the fella's ex-wife would show up. She would sit with the daughter and the fella would say 'how about some food' and as we were helping ourselves the son would arrive.  

He wouldn't say hello to anybody but would get in to some argument with dad and the arguments would usually spring from the fact that mom and dad were no longer a couple, mom no longer lived in the big house and neither did the kids.

So each Memorial Day this fella would get ready for a big garden party that no one went to; the son was embarrassing, the daughter was a typical 'valley girl' and the poor mother would try and hold on to the remnants that once were her family.

Each time we went there we ended up playing darts and leaving most of the food.

One year, Hank brought along his wife – that was a new one on me and I think he married her so she could get a green card.

She was a make up assistant in the film industry and Hank and his pal were assistant film directors; they were always setting up one big film after another none of which ever happened and if there's one thing to know about the Los Angeles film industry it's that most people have a script in their pocket, a project they are working on and, as an actor, I have been offered stardom more times than I can remember.

It was usually 'I want your voice in my movie' – my voice? Maybe I can get in to it too aye?

Hank asked me to join him when Memorial Weekend came about again – some time in May, as a rule, before the weather got really hot and the sun reflecting on the pool would blind you with its glare and when I would go indoors to get away from it the image of the last thing I was looking at would stay with me – but I passed as it was just too embarrassing.

I never completely lost contact with Hank; he would call me every Saint Patrick's Day and offer his services as a nominated driver. He drove a 1963 Chevy Nova convertible with red seats and white body work and in the winter, even though it was LA, it was cold, as he couldn't get the hood to work – or the top or whatever it's called - so we were forever in the open.

When I started to do my one man Irish Show on St Patrick's Day in the year 2000 he came to see it and one year he brought along the guy from the valley.

'Nice show, Chris; listen when we get time maybe you can tell me the rules of cricket.'

'Yeh – when we get time' I'd say.

I did the show each year up to about 2010 and each year I'd send Hank a flyer and he would call to say he was available as a nominated driver.

As well as the Yiddish, Hank had a very rough voice with a thick Brooklyn accent; he would talk about his 'dawdter' and his 'mudder an' farder' and one day when his daughter showed up she turned out to be quite a beauty. It was strange to see something so beautiful with such a rough looking man – let's face it he looked like a gangster.

One year one of the flyers came back – not at this address, so I feared the worst.

Hank had called me one day, when I got back from New York; I saw his name on my 'caller I.D.' thing on the phone and meant to call him back but I was rushing out so I didn't. He probably wanted to know how his home town was.

I felt guilty not calling him that day as I knew what the returned envelope meant, which I kept in the car; one day when I was travelling through Culver City, I called at his address and what I had suspected was true.

The manager of the building told me he had died; he had a heart attack one day and that was all he knew.

All the stuff I knew died with him: his daughter, his mother in New York, his money worries, the very cheap places to eat he had found all over Los Angeles and his Chevy Nova convertible, which he called Betsy – all gone.

Took me a long time to get over the guilt of not calling him that day – but I did think of him just as I think of all my friends, like you, that I will call one day.

Just as one day I'll tell you the difference between baseball and cricket.

Intermission, The Trip, Chapter 2.

Chapter 2

He got to know a few people at Rowton House who told him where to get work: cash in hand, they said, and when he asked what that meant he wasn't sure if he should take it, 'Everybody does it' he was told 'it'll keep the wolf from the door, whilst looking for something.'

He made up his mind to give it a try and went, with a few others, ready to start work outside a place called Dowding & Mills in Camp Hill. He asked what they did and was told they had to meet someone who would give them a job. He was used to physical work and wore a good pair of boots, some old trousers and a jerkin.

When he got there he noticed there were quite a few blokes and they were told to stay clear of the Dowding & Mills entrance as they might be a nuisance.

After a few minutes an open top lorry pulled up and a man, the boss, sitting next to the driver got out.

'Morning boys' he said, in a Cork accent 'ready for work?'

Most of the men cheered.

'Ten men today' he said and Patrick could see there were a lot more men than that.

'We're off to Weoley Castle.' he said 'It's heavy work and I want bricky labourers – and get this, they're using breeze blocks.'

He looked at the men; little fellas stretched to make themselves bigger and those with muscles, flexed them. Patrick stood with the rest, like ducks in a pond begging for bread. The boss, didn't hurry, he knew they all wanted a job. Some days if he said 'breeze blocks' some of the men would drift away. He looked most of the men in the eye, loving the little power he had and stood there like a tin god.

'I have a family to feed' said a little fella at the front.

'You!' said the boss, pointing at Patrick 'get on the truck.'

Patrick did what he was told and climbed on to the back of the open truck. One by one other men came aboard till there were ten. The other men slowly slinked away, including the little fella who said he had a family. Patrick looked at him and felt sorry for him.

'I know what you're thinking' said a man standing next to him 'He's not even married. Everybody has a story.'

The little fella shouted after the lorry as it pulled away 'he's not even English – what about us?'

The man next to Patrick, Kevin Mannion, said 'You'll get a lot of that over here. The last time they gave him a job he moaned and skived all day.'

The lorry carried on along Camp Hill and turned right around the round-about after The Ship pub, went straight to the top and turned left along Moseley Road. Patrick noticed that as that was the road where Mr. Reynolds lived. They then turned right at Belgrave Road, went straight to the bottom and turned left on Bristol Road to head for the south west of the city where new houses were being built and to fix war damage to the Ariel Motorcycles factory in Selly Oak and there were new buildings constructed near there.

Patrick was given a weeks work and earned £12 which to him was good and better than the average pay. The job was getting some heavy breeze blocks weighing around five or six pounds, from the back of a truck, load them into a wheelbarrow, then around to the brick layer who was working around four feet off the ground. Again five or six pounds or so lifted and laid.

'You'll soon have muscles on your piss' said the brick layer and when Patrick got back to Rowton House that night his arms felt as if they were going to burst. When they finished work the men were dropped off at Dowding & Mills and when they alighted the men started walking up Camp Hill and he the other way.

'Where you going?' said Mannion, 'The pub's up here.'

The Ship: the pub he said he wouldn't go into again. But it was good to be with the boys. He had been given his wages for the day £3/12d and was delighted.

Mannion, sat next to him, 'If you want to go legit and pay tax and insurance you'll have to register at the dole office; they'll sort you out.'

'I'll give it a few weeks' said Patrick 'see how it goes.'

Sunday came and Patrick found a Roman Catholic Church in the neighbourhood, Saint Anne's and after mass he wandered about. He wanted to see if the room was still available on Coventry Road. He had written to Carmel and told her about it, but he hadn't received a reply to that one yet, but when he got to the house where the room was advertised he noticed there was no card in the window and the door was boarded up. He looked up and down Coventry Road and a horse and cart pulled up beside him.

'Morning' said the milkman, as he went up to the houses with a little carrier to carry eight bottles of milk, some of them in funny shaped bottle; sterilised milk. As he walked along the houses, the horse moved with him, and when he had to cross the busy road at one point the horse stopped and waited.

Patrick went up to it and was saying hello to it by rubbing the top of its head and, by force of habit, he took a lump of sugar from his pocket and gave it to the horse.

'How are you doing?' he said to the horse, which was the ultimate in rhetorical questions.

Billy Jones was the milkman, that day, a pleasant little rotund Welshman and he could see that Patrick was a lover of horses.

''What do you call him?' said Patrick.

'Spot' said Billy 'look at his nose.'

There was the spot.

''How did you get such a great job?'

''I asked the milkman who delivered my milk.'

''How about me asking you?' said Patrick, more in hope than civility.

'Of course' said Billy 'meet me in the wagon and I'll tell you about it.'

'All right . . er when?'

'When they open tonight – the Wagon and Horses – it's on Moseley Road; corner of Balsall Heath Road.'

'Will do' said Patrick 'what's happened there?'

Referring to the state of the house.

'I don't know' said Billy 'I was delivering milk to the couple there but when I came yesterday, I heard that they were arrested; I think they must have been rounded up; interred.'

The horse walked on and Billy Jones followed – 'see you tonight' he said 'around seven – no promises.'

Patrick looked at the house with the damaged door where the cops must have kicked in; strange.

He walked on to the cafe where they served the Woolton Pie. He didn't know what was in it, he knew it had vegetables so he asked them after he'd eaten his fill and they told him it had potatoes, parsnips, cauliflower, carrots and turnips. The pie was topped with pastry, and rolled oats and chopped scallions thickened the gravy, which they served in a little jug with the meal. The customer then added the gravy themselves.

'Rolled Oats?' he said.

'Yes – porridge oats.'

'Oh stirabout, that's grand' and he thought he would introduce it to Carmel when she came over; might even cook it himself like the time he cooked the Mulligatawny soup.

It was a nice evening as he strolled along Moseley Road to the Wagon and Horses pub and when he got there he went through a middle door and it was a tiny little bar called the outdoor which was a take away bar where customers bought bottled alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, cigarettes and food such as crisps and pieces of pork in bags which were called scratchings. There was a woman in there drinking a half pint of Mitchell’s & Butler's mild; Patrick looked at the drink and asked her 'What are you drinking?' and she said 'No thanks I'm only have this one.'

'Oh, I see' he said 'I meant what beer is that?'

'Oh!' she laughed 'It's a mild.'

'Any good?'

She screwed up her nose 'The bar's the next door down and the smoke is around the corner.'

He went out and in to the next doorway and as the woman had screwed up her face he ordered a pint of bitter. He knew that was safe as he didn't see any draft Guinness. It was early in the evening so plenty of room to sit and he sat down so he could see all around for Billy Jones. A few minutes later he came in and ordered a brown and mild at the bar; the brown was a brown ale mixed into the mild. The barman started to pour the brown ale into a pint glass but Billy stopped him 'draft first, boyo' he said.

The barman shrugged and half filled the pint glass and plonked the brown ale bottle onto the bar, with some force, then Billy equally plonked the exact changed onto the bar; when he turned around he saw Patrick and sat down opposite him at the table.

'Bastard' he said 'If he puts the brown ale in first and then fills the glass, beer goes over the top and that's the expensive part of the drink. He's always doing it, the bastard.'

'I've forgotten your name' said Patrick.

'I forgot yours' said Billy and he clinked glasses with Patrick's drink 'Cheers' he said 'Billy Jones.'

'Pat' said Patrick, clinking back 'Patrick Callaghan 'Slàinte.'

'You working at the moment?'

'I'm on the building' said Patrick.

'If you want a job on the milk you have to get up early in the mornings.'

'That'd be okay' said Patrick 'I'm used to it.'

'I usually came into the bar Sundays so meet up any time.'

They had a few drinks then Billy had to head home to Vincent Street as he had to get up early for work the next day.

The next day, started another week and another walk from Rowton House to Camp Hill. There seemed to be a lot more men there and when the truck arrived a lot of the new faces pushed their way to the van. The boss opened the door and stood on the door frame of the truck, holding himself up by the open door.

'Callaghan' he shouted, then pointed to the truck 'on the back. Mannion!' the same with a gesture towards the back.

'What's going on here?' said the bloke who shouted after them on that first day 'We want to work too, you know.'

'Yes' shouted a few more of the new faces.

The boss looked through them 'Collins' pointing at the back of the truck again.

'What about us?' shouted a rough looking man of around thirty 'what about the English?'

'You know something mister' said the boss 'you don't have a day's work in ya – you look as if you're off out for a piss up.'

'I'll give you a piss up!' shouted the rough looker, and he walked menacingly toward the boss.

As he got close to the truck the boss hit him so hard on the chin that he fell like a sack of potatoes. Some of the crowd moved forward, and the boss picked up a cricket bat from the cab.

'Who's gonna be first?' he shouted.

The crowd stopped.

'Andrews?' he called out: 'on to the truck.'

Andrews climbed on with the others. The little trouble maker shouted 'we'll be back tomorrow and there'll be more of us.'

The boss jumped down from the truck and went over to the little fella 'what about today?'

As he got closer somebody took a swing at him but he saw it coming and grabbed the guy, who appeared to be the ring leader, by the neck hugging him in a hold. A couple of others came for him but he held on to the ring leader and swung him at his attackers, still holding him around the neck.

Patrick and Mannion jumped down from the truck as the boss almost threw the ring leader into the little throng, then he held the cricket bat threateningly up 'Come on – who's the first for a cracked skull?'

Nobody moved.

'You two' referring to Mannion and Patrick 'get back on the truck.'

They did.

'You – you lot, if you come anywhere near us again I'll bring more than a few to take care of yiz.'

The men stared at him.

'Did you hear me?'

Some hard staring now.

'Hogan' Hogan came forward 'on the truck.'

Hogan climbed up. 'Keating, Bishop and er you' he gestured to a big fella at the back, 'the three of ya – on the truck.

They climbed up. The rough looking fella was being revived.

'You' said the boss, pointing at the trouble maker 'next time I see you causing trouble in the mornings, I'll break your neck. We can all bring a mob.'

The new men moved away 'If any of yiz were even ready to work I'd have used you.'

'Bollocks' said one of the men.

'I don't need to know what you use for brains' he said 'I have a good memory – you' he pointed at a man 'Harrison, isn't it? Er, you – Wilson, isn’t it? Thought I wouldn't recognise ya.'

He got into the truck and they drove away.

When they reached their destination, the fellas stepped down from the truck and, as usual, went into a temporary hut. Inside was full of men with blood shot eyes, hangovers and smoking cigarettes. The smoke covered up some of the smell of stale farts and shite. A lot of men were studying the horse racing form in newspapers and some were eating packed lunches and drinking from thermos flasks.

The day before was the Epsom Derby, run for the first time since the war as the race course was used for military purposes. An Irish horse, Airborne, won it with the starting price of fifty to one – 50/1: that means for the uninitiated that if you put one pound on that horse to win you win fifty pounds - £50 plus your pound stake back. Fifty pounds in those days was a fortune and six weeks pay. Not one of the men in that hut had backed Airborne and most were annoyed that they hadn't.

'It was sticking out like a sore thumb' said Dennis Malone, one of the fellas 'they wouldn't have entered the bleedin' race if it didn't stand a chance.'

'A wily ould bastard the trainer.' said Johnson, another fella.

'Boyd-Rochfort?' said Patrick.

'Yes' said Malone 'I was ready to back it but there was a copper by the bookies. I wasn't sure if they were going to raid the place or what.'

Gambling anywhere except the track and account betting was against the law. The illegal bookies ran their businesses from home or would collect bets in the pubs or cafés or get a runner to collect.

'You were going to back it?' said Johnson.

'I was' said Malone 'your man said he'd be Airborne tomorrow and I was wondering how much he put on it.'

'Who?'

'Satterthwaite.'

'Satterthwaite. - what kind of a name is that?'

Then another fella, Carter, who had been listening to this exchange said 'Gary Satterthwaite, his name was. He flew to Dublin yesterday; maybe that's what he meant?'

'The bastard won all that money – no wonder he flew.'

'You have a great imagination' said Johnson 'you have your shite; why would he fly to Dublin on the day of the Derby before the race?'

'I don't know' said Malone 'but where would he fly from – there are no flights to Dublin from Birmingham.

And on and on they went.

Eventually the men disappeared which left Patrick and his colleagues waiting to be assigned, if that was the word.

Their boss came in 'You'll be set to work in a few minutes but tomorrow I'll need all of you. We meet outside The Crown pub at six-o-clock. I hope the little punch up this morning didn't disturb you too much,'

The fellas shrugged or shook their heads: ''Boys' he said 'I know those bowsies. Couldn't do a day's work between them to save their lives – and I don't just look for Irish. I'm always after reliable workers and you fellas are it.'

The day went well and when they were dropped off back at The Crown pub Patrick had a few drinks in that huge pub he had seen on that first day. It was huge inside too and it was the first time he had more than a few drinks since leaving Dublin.

The next day, back at the same place, the same group of men were gathered, filling the air with their previous evening of gargling but this time Patrick gave his sample of nasty air to the proceedings. Some men were reading The Sporting Life newspaper, some were smoking and Malone was asleep. If he wasn't he was resting his eyes and if anybody woke him he would tell them that.

'Hello fellas' they all heard in a Lancashire accent 'did you all get on it?'

Gary Satterthwaite standing at the door, looking very smart in a smart suit.

Malone woke up when he heard this 'Back from Dublin so soon?' he said.

'What? Who said I was going to Dublin?'

'er . . . er . .' said Malone.

'Did none of you get on it?'

All looked as if they'd just received a blow to the belly from Joe Louis.

'Are you telling me . .'

'None of us got on it' said Johnson 'Shiter Shelter over there said you were flying to Dublin.'

'I said it's Airborne for me tomorrow, and I went to Epsom and put my money on him. Now I'm going to collect my pay from here then it's Monte Carlo for me.'

'I didn't think you were serious.'

'I think you 'have your shite' as you Paddies say.'

With the work he was doing, Patrick managed to put money into his post office bank account. He sent money home to Carmel too and a few weeks after the rough stuff in front of Dowding & Mills, he received a letter at the Post Restante and it was from the Co-op. It appeared he had been recommended by Billy Jones after he sent an application for a job. Nothing was promised but they wanted to meet him.

He didn't have a suit to wear, Billy Jones offered him a loan of his but he was about five feet eight and Patrick about five eleven. That might not have been a problem but Billy's waist was about forty five inches as opposed to Patrick's which was around thirty. So he went to the Co-op as smart as he could and wore the clothes he wore for mass.

'How are you with horses' said Mr. MacDonald, the manager of the dairy.

'Game ball' said Patrick.

'Game ball?' said the bemused MacDonald.

'Sorry' said Patrick 'I had a horse in Dublin, Finn MacCool, and I got on very well with him. I rode him, had him pull a trap – I could even ride bare backed.'

'Impressive' said MacDonald. 'Delivering milk is only half the job, as well as collecting the tokens. You have to put the saddle on each morning and the collar, then you have to put them back in the stall at the end of the day. There are stablemen, but they are only there to clean up and clear out.

The horses know every day of the week: on a Wednesday, for example, they are given a special meal, kind of a mash. In fact you will hardly need to know the rout of the round, as the horses knew the way better than anybody.'

MacDonald told him he would keep him in mind for when a vacancy came up.

He worked at various building sites, building back Birmingham, as he called it, and when December came he headed over to Dublin. This time on a ship called the Hibernia and, even though it was a winter crossing, it was a lot easier than his trip over to Holyhead and he managed to get a seat this time.

There he was an eighteen month old Finbar; Carmel was as beautiful as ever and Joe, the same old Joe, frowned on them sharing the same bed, settled down to accepting it. Carmel was very shy in the bedroom as she felt embarrassed with Finbar in the room, and the thin wall between their room and Joe's so their love making was restricted to when Joe was out and Finbar asleep. It was the same old Dublin with the characters and the craic. He liked that but couldn't quite get used to Carmel and she couldn't get used to him.

Both had been independent: she living as a single mother and he a bachelor in Birmingham, many male pals and a life with no responsibilities apart from sending money home. Joe felt the tension but didn't say anything. When they got into bed they lay back to back. Still with a small peck of a kiss no matter who got in first. He frequented a few of the pubs including McDaid's and the barman Oliver. Joe used the pub too but at a different time of day from Patrick; Joe around lunch time and Patrick in the evening.

Carmel and Patrick annoyed each other over small things. Patrick didn't dry the dishes after she had washed up, he left the seat up in the lavatory, he tinkled on the floor, in the lavatory, she left her make up all over the place and he took to farting in Carmel's company.

Neither of them had any experience of a happy family home even though Joe worshipped Patrick but they were two men and they needed a woman's touch in their lives and Carmel didn't know love at all with her parents being away or she away at school. Her family were her friends.

Who could help? The only happily married couple were Calista and Mateus but they were in England. Carmel had been in touch with them and they lived in Northampton.

One morning, after breakfast, Joe announced he was off to Cork for a few days. He would be back for Christmas but needed to see his brother. It came as a surprise to Patrick but he said he forgot to tell them and he wanted to see John as he hadn't seen him for a long time.

He got the train from Kingsbridge Station that morning.

So there they were, walking back from the station, pushing Finbar in the pram, both knowing why Joe made himself scarce. Both knowing they had work to do to get used to each other and realise the magic they had before he went t'England, as he put it.

The weather wasn't great but they knew where they were going without mentioning it; St. Stephen's Green.

It was cold but it was just as they remembered. He did wonder about going to Bewley's but after fifteen minutes or so they decided to go home. There was a big fire in the grate with plenty of turf to keep them warm. Finbar woke and loved to see his Da for a change and he got used to him straight away. When they reached home the place was lovely and warm and whilst Carmel got Finbar's meal ready Patrick went into the yard and cut some turf which he brought into the house.

Carmel changed Finbar's nappie and when Patrick amused him Carmel sat down at the piano and played The Maiden's Prayer.

Patrick knew how much it meant to Joe and knew his mother played it as a party piece but as he played with a little ball with Finbar he heard the plaintive music from Carmel.

It meant nothing that he knew to him but it was nostalgic for a mother he never knew. Finbar had heard his mother play it many times. There was a lyric to the music which was written by a Polish composer called Thecla Badarzewska – as she was half way through the piece Patrick stood behind her as he wanted to see the segment when she crossed hands, playing the melody with the left hand the bass with her right. In front of her he could see the music which seems to have hunderds of notes which she played easily.

When she finished he kissed her on the back of her neck. She stood up and kissed him full on the lips and as they pulled away a big smile came on his face which she responded to. Then they gave each other a bug hug and paid attention to Finbar.

It was time for an improvised Irish Stew, which wasn't bad but it was better than the Woolton Pie from England.

Joe returned just before Christmas and they had a warm snug time. He was glad to see they were both happy. The warmth in the house was accented by the stiff walk Finbar, Joe and Patrick took in Fairview Park. They returned to a Christmas dinner of turkey, bottles of Guinness due to the temporary lifting of rationing restrictions. The Irish economy was boosted by Emigrants’ remittances as they were officially called amounted to more than £13,000,000, and came mainly from the 50,000 Irish people working in Great Britain.

When January came it was time for Patrick to return to Birmingham and a tearful farewell at the house for Patrick's little family as Joe accompanied him to Dún Laoghaire.

Before they went Carmel and Patrick decided that she would join him in Birmingham soon.

When he got to Birmingham he went to Rowton House and booked in for the night; they knew and seemed pleased to see him. The next morning he went to Deritend Post office to see if he had any mail and, with a frew Christmas cards, there was a letter from the Co-op dairy telling him he had the job.

There was a slight problem about his address, as the Co-op didn't like a post-restante, care of a post office, or even the Rowton House so Billy Jones said he could use his address in Vincent Street.

Billy told Patrick he would need to get a National Insurance number and card.

On the first morning Patrick had to start at nine-o-clock. This was to introduce him to the horse. There was one called Bob, which was assigned to Patrick, but in reality, Patrick was assigned to Bob; the horse.

He had to fill out forms, get a badge and a uniform jacket. They also issued him with a satchel to go over his shoulder for collecting money, when rationing stopped. The customers were allowed one and a half pints of milk per week each. They didn't produce half pint bottles so they would get two pints each one week and one pint the next.

His second day was out on the round with Mr. MacDonald, whose name was Bob, the same as the horse. MacDonald didn't like to be known and or addressed as anything but Mister MacDonald. He was an old soldier who served in the 'Home Guard.' They were an unpaid citizens militia as he wasn't drafted into the regular army for he was in a protected job in a key industry. Patrick thought he must have been an officer because of his attitude and tendency to be bossy.

Patrick knew the route as it included the 'Wagon & Horses' pub where he had met Billy Jones. It was a long route and half way along Moseley road. he pulled in at a little lane to deliver milk to a café, owned my Mr. Reynolds, who owned the house he had seen in Coventry Road. He didn't see any point in asking him about the house after he saw the state of it.

Patrick developed a taste for coffee in Mr Reynolds cafe and the Woolton pie seemed nicer that the Woolton pie in Coventry Road. The coffee wasn't really coffee as it was a German substitute called Koff; what it was made from was anybody's guess, there was another one called Possum and people said they were made from acorns and such. Patrick knew it wasn't real coffee but he got used to it.

On that first day he saw quite a few cards in people’s windows of a room to rent but he would stick to his guns and hope for more than a room; being Irish wasn't really an asset. When his round took him to the other side of Saint Paul's Road there were a few houses next to a bombed building which, in fact, was a piece of wast land where buildings had been bombed. The Brummies called them bomb-buildings and he could see this one was used as a dump. The two houses closest to the junction of Moseley Road and Saint Paul's Road was split into separate rooms. He thought he might be able to move into something like that but had second thoughts when he realised there were quite a few children in this two fairly large houses which might not suit Carmel.

He knew Carmel was more acquainted with a privileged up bringing and he didn't think he would get much sleep when he had to get up very early.

The lane, which was close to Reynolds cafe, had four cottages at the bottom next to the railway embankment, and he noticed the cottage near the railway line was empty. He delivered milk to number three and knocked the door. A blind man answered and told Patrick that number four was empty and that the people there had moved to the Isle-of-wight. When the man realised Patrick might be interested in moving in he told him that the buildings were owned by the factory next door at the top of the lane, to the left.

He went to the front door of the offices, of the factory, to ask if they would be renting the fourth cottage. They were not milk customers, so didn't know him when a teenage girl came to the desk.

'Good morning' she said.

'Hello – I've just delivered milk to one of the cottages at the back of you – is number four for rent?'

'I don't know – where is the cottage?'

'If you go down that little lane' he said 'they are on the left at the bottom.'

'I haven't been down there' she said 'but Mister Maughan looks after lettings; it's only a little part of our business. Would you like to make an appointment to see him?'

'Yes. I can't come now as Bob is waiting for me.'

'Bob?' she said.

He beckoned to the window so she could see the milk cart with Bob waiting.

'He looks as if he's going to start huffing and blowing.'

'Huffing and blowing?' from the girl.

'It's only when he's kept waiting that he goes mad.'

'What?'

'I'm joking.'

'I knew' she said.

'I knew you knew.'

She looked at the horse.

'He doesn't really.' he said.

'I wasn't . . well, I wasn't sure. How long have you been delivering on this milk round?'

'Since Jackson left.'

'Is he the same Jackson who lived down the terrace?'

'Was the name Jackson too – at number four?' from Patrick.

'Yes.'

'Went to the Isle of Wight?'

'That's right.' she said 'small world.'

'I don't know if the Jackson who worked at the dairy went to the Isle of Wight.'

During this she was looking at Mister Maugham's diary – 'would you be free sometime this week?' she said.

'Yes except for Friday and Saturday – I have to collect the coupons and cash.'

'How about Thursday at four thirty?'

'I think so.'

'Okay – but if something happens and you can't make it let us know.'

'Okay.'

'What's your name?'

He told her and got on with his round.

He went back to Bob, slipped a lump of sugar into the horse's mouth and moved on delivering milk.

He was late delivering milk, on Thursday, there was no milk for the terrace but he realised he wouldn't have time to go back to the dairy and back out to meet Mr. Maughan, so he went into the front office of the factory. He told them the situation and Mr. Maughan came out to see him.

'How long will you be?' he said.

'Maybe an hour or two.' said Patrick.

'Oh, I see – is anybody with you?'

“Only Bob.'

'Bob?'

'The horse.'

'Of course – the horse – didn't know I was a poet, did you.'

'Poet?'

'The horse! The horse, of course.'

'Sorry' said Patrick Laughingly '– I'm not with it today.'

'If we only have Bob to worry about, why don't I come with you and we can chat.'

He had a very educated accent, an Oxford accent they probably called it in those days, or R.P. - received pronunciation - and he pronounced chat as chet.

'Come on then.' and they both walked to the milk truck, after Mr. Maughan went back to pick up a raincoat.

'We'll get the round finished in no time.' said Patrick 'with you giving me a hand.'

'I don't mind.'

The horse, the cart, Patrick and Mr Maughan headed south along Moseley Road. The next stop was the other side of the factory, passed the Castle and Falcon pub and into a tiny shop, which happened to be a snooker club.

'Will you drop those two bottles of sterra in there?'

'Yep' said Maughan and picked up the two bottles with one hand.

'Done this before?' said Patrick.

'Yep' said Maughan as he went into the tiny shop. When he opened the door a big bell attached to the side of the door rang very loudly and he heard footsteps coming down stairs at the back. He waited and a tall gentleman, wearing a short sleeved pullover came.

'Oh?' he said 'another guy – did they get rid of the Paddy?'

'The Paddy?' said Maughan.

'The Mick? - the new man.'

'Oh?' said Maughan 'I thought you meant a paddy.'

'What?'

'A paddy field – that's a paddy to me.'

'WHAT?'

'I thought you were talking about cultivating rice.'

He gave the milk to the man and walked back to the milk cart. Patrick came back and got in.

'I was at Cambridge before the war and in one of the vacs I worked as a milkman.'

'I thought you looked a bit handy with the auld bottles.' said Patrick.

'Not the sterra, as you called it – just the past.'

'So what's the score with the cottage at number four, Mister Maug . .'

'Michael' he said 'call me Michael - or Mick, as your customer called you, back there.'

'Awkward bastard' said Patrick 'told me to drop the milk outside to stop the bell ringing on his bleedin' door. Won't give me his tokens or anything prefers to take them into the dairy himself; didn't even want me on the premises.'

'Oh dear – do you get a lot of that?'

'What prejudice?'

'Yes.'

'I take no notice; no bread. '

'No bread?'

'One of the fellas I know, he's always saying, take no bread. No bread poultice, no notice.'

'Oh, rhyming slang – Brummy rhyming slang.'

Patrick nodded his head.

'So you're interested in renting one of the cottages?'

'Yes' said Patrick 'then my wife and son will come over and join me.'

'From Dublin?'

'How did you know?'

'I know Dublin – I know it very well. Book of Kells?'

'Yes' said Patrick 'my wife was at Trinity.'

'Oh yes – wonderful City; not treated well by the English, I have to say.'

'English your self, of course, Michael?'

'Yes – like the Irish, not all Paddy McGintys, we're not all John Bulls.'

They were now clip-petty clopping down Saint Paul's Road. Pretty soon they came to a bridge – an underbridge – under a railway line, where the road they were travelling along narrowed considerably so Bob slowed down, without being told, as they went under.

'The four cottages are two up and one down, plus a tiny scullery.' said Michael 'There's no hot water and you have to share a lavatory with number three and number one and two share as well.'

'We only recently had hot water at home, so I'm used to the cold water and outside lavo, so I'd love to take a look at it.'

'As you will have noticed, there are long gardens and next to the lavatories there are wash room facilities. Let me know when you want take a look.'

'I will.' said Patrick.

'And the rent is eight shillings and eleven pence a week.'

Patrick loved the cottage. He could imagine all the things they could plan with the house. Michael told him he could do anything he liked with the premises with regards decorating. He could build a shed, keep chickens – have dogs and cats. But he couldn't knock any walls down.

He wrote to to Carmel and told her everything and told her he knew where to buy a double bed, a cot and a pram and he would try to think of kitchen utensils before she came.

She agreed to most of what he suggested but told him to just get essential utensils as she would sort it out when she came over.

There was a double bed in the larger bedroom, a cot in the smaller one – a box room really – he had a table and four kitchen chairs, washing up liquid and soap powder in the kitchen and odds and ends so they could make cups of tea and coffee.

He met Carmel and Finbar on the platform and together they exited News Street Station via the front onto Stephenson Street. When they looked back to the station they saw it was a six or seven storey building, although he didn't know what was on the top floor. There was a taxi rank with black cabs lined up on it and next to the station was The Station Hotel and the three of them look at the magnificent building. Little three year old Finbar didn't quite know what to make of it and Carmel looked as lovely and radiant as ever.

The went to Lyons Tea and Coffee Shop in New Street where they each had hot Blackcurrent cordial served in a glass with a metal frame and handle. They enjoyed it so much that it was a regular place for them and the drink a favourite at home.

When Carmel went to the lavatory Patrick took a good look at Finbar. What else could he see but a beautful blond, three year old boy, fast asleep in his lttle push chair? He wondered how Carmel managed the push chair, the child and the suit case on the journey. It turned out she met an older woman, on the boat, who was coming to Birminghan as she lived maybe one hundred yards from their little cottage on Moseley Road. She had gone off in a taxi to a doctor's surgery where she was a live-in caretaker. She told Carmel about the doctor and how good he was but Patrick told her he had registered with an Irish doctor in Saint Paul's Road.

When Carmel came back to the table she told him that there was a notice on a wall saying they were looking for 'Nippies.'

'What?' said Patrick.

'Nippes.' said Carmel 'that's what they call the waitresses here; I have an application form – I'm going for it.'

©2025 Chris Sullivan

END OF PART 2 INTERMISSION.

THE CALLAGHANS

PART 3

FINBAR – THE FAIR ONE