Chapter 14.

 

Was it love? How did Patrick know? Maybe he didn't know what love was; the only love he had was for his horse and the rest went to Joe, his father. He thought about Carmel all the time, and the funny little way she pronounced her name with the stress on the second syllable – made it sound mysteriously foreign. An American tourist once asked him where Parnell Street was and pronounced it as Par-null Street, but that was the way some of the English called it too.

Every time he walked along O'Connell Street he would check the time with Clerys' clock, then bring his eyes down to where they stood that first time he talked to her, and at the spot where her mother snatched her away.

Nora Wilde, she called herself, not Mrs. Wilde as anybody with a bit of sense would say.

As he walked on, the old song 'Nora Malone' came into his mind and he banished it before it took hold, and started to sing 'Molly Malone, in his head, and then whistled it as he walked.

He had been to the shop, where he saw Martin Kennedy ogling into a window of ladies' hats. It had been a good day, as the shop owner wanted to place an advertisement into a newspaper. His father had all the connections with the actual newspapers and would sort out which newspaper to try and place it.

A sudden thought hit him like a clanger: Carmel had mentioned to him that they had an account with Clerys – Martin Kennedy might know her address.

Instead of going to Joe in McDaid's, he went into Clerys to sort that it out. He was the first person he saw when he went into the shop. He was talking to a couple of young girls and he nearly turned and walked away when he saw Patrick, but Patrick caught his eye and signalled him to stop.

“What is it now?' said Kennedy.

“What is it now!!!! - why are you in a hurry to get away?'

Kennedy stopped in his tracks.

The girls he was talking to, used the excuse of the interruption to walk away from him.

“I didn't mean . . I was . .'

“Being a bleed'n' nuisance again – chasing the mots!'

He either didn't know Carmel's address or wouldn't tell him, but it was worth a try.

Patrick and Joe used McDaid's as a kind of meeting place as it was handy for the newspapers, the bookies and, most importantly – it had tick; credit.

After giving Joe the news about the hat shop wanting to place an advertisement, Patrick told Joe he was going to Dún Laoghaire to find out what was going on.

“Looking for your mot, are ye?'

“Well, something must have happened. She was as right as rain one day and the next, she's gone.'

He sat back in his chair and took a drink out of his pint.

“I'll go out there tomorrow – Finn Macooill will take me – if he's fit?'

“He's fit' said Joe “I'll get him from the lane, in the morning - but can you not get a bus?'

“I don't think so.'

“Or the train – millions come in every day to Westland Row, there are plenty of trains to Dún Laoghaire.'

Next morning Patrick was up and out before it was light.

His father was right – he'd get the train. For some reason he thought he could show up on a horse like Tom Mix and ride off with Carmel into the sunset.

Finn Macooill, his piebald horse, stood there ready to go, but Patrick wasn't taking him.

The horse was saddened at this and did he have a long face?

He might have, even, galloped out, like Captain Gallagher, fleeing the Red Coats, or a gentle little trot, searching for water troughs along the route. Patrick could ride a horse without a saddle as his father bought and sold them during his childhood. He would mess with the other lads of the lane, where they all rode bareback. But in reality he'd be flying down Cork Street with Finn Macooill pulling a 2-wheeler dodging buses and cars: even though he could ride a horse, standing on a two wheeler was his usual mode of horse travel. So after he left, Joe took Finn Macooill back to Molyneux Yard, which they called 'The Lane.'

He was a rare thing in 1940s Ireland, an only child: his brothers had all fled the nest to various parts of the world, and as the mother is the main stay of the family in The Liberties, his brothers must have felt no need to keep in touch as she was gone; their philosophy must have been, when the mother's gone the family are gone.

Maybe they would come back for a funeral with the wake and the drink, and the getting together with their new suits, bought especially for the funeral, to show they were doing well in their part of the Irish diaspora no matter to which country.

There were two brothers in America – Chicago and Montana, a brother in Australia and one in Canada. Patrick wouldn't expect any of those galoots to be at Joe's, on his demise, and even if they did he would hardly recognise them. The youngest, Jeremiah, was over ten years older that Patrick.

The family wasn't on his mind that morning as he walked to the station. He'll ask Carmel if . . . but then he thought something might have happened to her. She seemed to like the Jameson's the last time, although she only had the one and . . . oh hold it!! He gave her a little kiss on the cheek. She didn't seem to mind but it might have put her off him. He wasn't a fella for the girls, he'd always liked them but . . ah, but but but – let's get on with it.

He walked passed Dublin Castle and Trinity College, the college where Carmel said she was going to attend, and he saw a few couples, even at that time of the morning, strolling around St Stephen's Green: he was half tempted to go in there, before going to the station.

The half hour walk made him think about things. He was only a young fella, twenty one, so he wondered if his love, and he wasn't sure it was love, was a bit premature – and then he wondered how Carmel felt.

He remembered that the one time he was late meeting her – quite late, maybe half an hour - she was still waiting under the clock. She was in a terrible panic and worried, so she said, that she might never see him again.

'Ah stop worrying' he thought 'let's go' and he got on the train.

Not a habit, of his, taking the train. Others had suitcases and trunks, as they were getting the boat to Holyhead and to England. 'Goan'tingland' they'd say. Goan't make a killun dayor.'

Thoughts were roaming and meandering inside his head as the train moved on. Smoke coming from the steam engine, sounds of the train whistling, banging and clanging at each stop; jiggerty can, jiggerty can and, eventually, he looked through the window, as the smoke and steam cleared to see that the train had stopped; Dún Laoghaire. That's where he was Dún Laoghaire, and it was out the window.

He didn't know where Carmel lived, of course, all he knew was her name.

If her mother Nora Wilde was so confident about her name - Nora Wilde this, and Nora Wilde that, instead of, Mrs Wilde, lovely to meet you – people might know the family - it got up his back the way she looked at him that day as if Carmel had dragged him up out of the gutter – well maybe she did pull him out of the gutter and so what?

There it was in front of him Dún Bleedin' Laoghaire.

There were loads of people about so who should he ask?

They were all off on the diaspora to crowd the whole wide world with the Irish, then the Irish-ness and not all of them would stay in England – he bet none of them would stay in Holyhead – and he'd be right about that, not that he'd ever been there, or England or anywhere else apart from Ireland.

His Da didn't deal much with the horses any more, he was feeling his age. In the old days they had pigs, a goat and even a donkey and cart. This was Nancy, the old ass, they never called her a donkey, didn't like the word. Poor old Nancy; she'd pull that cart up hill and down dale with never a moan on her. One time Joe gave someone a lift to the station – Westland Row, as it happened, and the poor old ass collapsed pulling all that weight: collapsed at the traffic lights with two or three suit cases and a trunk on board – no guesses as to where they were going!!

Without missing a step, Joe hopped down, stood by Nancy and lifted her up by putting his shoulder to hers, and the fella to whom he was giving a lift, Tommy Devine, on the other side.

Now - who should he ask in Dún Laoghaire?

Her father had never been in a pub – never been in a pub - and then he saw a paper boy. The paper boy would know. “You don't know a Mr. Wilde do you?' he asked.

“You're right!' said the paper boy “I don't' and he walked off.

'That's a great start' he thought 'nice and friendly too.'

Actually it gave him an idea and he walked around till be saw a newspaper shop and went in. A big baldy headed fella was behind the counter giving someone a package of Sweet Afton and giving him change.

Patrick stopped for a moment - Flow gently Sweet Afton, among thy green braes. That's what he had said to Carmel, that day.

“Thank you very much, yes, thank you ta.' the fella said to every customer.

Then a next customer saw the lift of the eye brow and 'Thank you very much, yes, thank you ta.' The next - Thank you very much.'

Patrick got the eyebrow look:

He went to the counter “Thank you very much, yes, thank you ta.'

“er . . no I wanted to know if you know the Wildes?'

“The Oscar Wildes? Ha ha ha.'

“ . . no no -The family Wilde; do you know a family called Wilde?'

“I don't - Thank you very much. Next?

The paper boy, he had encountered earlier came through the door.

“Still looking for Wilde?'

“Yes'

“I was thinking about it.'

“You were?'
“Yes I was – I gave it a thought and there is a Reverend Wilde.'

“A wild reverend' laughed the big baldy headed fella behind the counter.

“No.' said Patrick.

“Okay' said the same man “Thank you very much, yes, thank you ta.'

The paper boy said “I know a Reverend Wilde.'

“Oh . . and where will I find him?'

“Up at the church. Where else do you think you'd find him?'

“I thought you could have put two two together, when I asked you before?'

“Why would I be putting two and two together?'

“Which church?'

“The protestant church.'

“Is he the priest there?'

“No – er I don't know – but his name is on the door.'

“How will I find it?' asked Patrick.

“Find what?'

“The church.'

“I tell you what' said the paper boy “If you walk towards the bay you should see something that looks like a Church – try that.'

“Ah funny wonder' said Patrick “a bleedin' comedian delivering the papers. I bet you're gas at a funeral.'

And he went out.

He enjoyed the craic in the paper shop – 'are people all like this in Dún Laoghaire?'

He knew which way was east, and he wandered into a place where, eventually he saw a church steeple. It was on the left hand side as you looked at it and the church, itself, was on the right. He went to the front door and there was a note on it – All enquiries to the Reverend Henry Wilde and it gave the house number in Haigh Avenue.

'All enquiries' he thought 'that'll be me.'

He walked down to the number, knocked the door and Nora Wilde opened it; neither of them said a word; just looked at each other.

Eventually “What can I do for you, Mr. Callaghan.'

“Is Carmel at home?'

“And why would you want Carmėl?' and before he could answer “but what is it to do with you whether she is home or not?'

“We had a date to meet, a few weeks ago, and I was worried about her.'

“Not that it has anything to do with you, but she is fine.'

The Reverend Wilde appeared from somewhere in the house.

“Everything all right, Nora?' then he saw Patrick “oh! Patrick Callaghan, who has been seeing my – (clearing is throat) - our daughter?'

“Yes sir, yes.'

“Well, Mr. Callaghan, my daughter is seventeen years of age.'

Patrick didn't say anything.

“How do you like that, Mr. Callaghan? Too young to be served alcohol anywhere in this country and you supplied her with the same?'

“The same? The same what?'

'Mr. Callaghan, I'm warning you to keep away from Carmèl' He pronounced it his way, which annoyed Patrick.

Wilde carried on “She is not here at the moment and in any case if you bother her again, I will have the guard on you – did you hear that? You introduced her to whiskey which is breaking the law.'

“I'm sorry but . .'

“No ifs or buts, Mr. Callaghan; keep away.' And he closed the door.