The Callaghans Chapter 3

 

Chapter 3

More than a year had past since Patrick had seen Carmel; he spent his time at Smithfield around the horses and the horse sales, some of the boys could ride those horses as good as any rider in a gymkhana, they 'side-trotted' and, more to the point bare backed; not that any competition interested them.

Selling advertisements in the local and national newspapers, wasn't going very well; the commission in nationals was better than the locals, but the business was hard.

After a day with commissions from Clerys', the hat shop in O'Connell Street and an Indian Restaurant, which opened a kind of trial 'curry house' in Lower Baggot Street, he met Joe at McDaid's.

'You do know, that the newspapers won't accept the one for the curry house - it isn't a proper restaurant.' said Joe.

Indian food was scarce in Dublin at the time: the owners of the one in Lower Baggott Street, were trying to introduce authentic Indian food where others had failed due to terrible menus, bad cooking and limited spice; just garam masala mixed with everything. It was unfortunate for Irish gastronomy, that Ireland had been colonsed by the English, a nation described by Voltaire as being a nation of forty-two religions but only two sauces. 

'The usual?' asked Oliver, when he came in - Patrick nodded - 'have something for you' he continued.

As the pint was settling, Oliver took an envelope from the back shelf and put it on the bar. As soon as Patrick looked at it he knew it was from Carmel; she was in Bangor in the north of Ireland. ''A protestant city' said Joe, when he heard.

Patrick opened the letter, when he had finished he kept it in his hand and read it again, 'She said there were lots of soldiers up there and General Eisenhower had been addressing them before they went off to fight in France.'

This was for the 'D Day' landings.

She said her parents had sent her to stay with their friends - she didn't say in Bangor, but it might have been - and her father had joined her there as he had work to do with the troops. She said that she was sorry she didn't tell him she was too young to drink alcohol legally. She had drunk wine, on the quiet, sneakily at her private school in Ballinteer on many occasions, but her parents didn't know, and were alarmed when she came back that day with only the slightest whiff of whiskey on her breath.

She said it was as if she'd given birth to the child of the devil.

She didn't say when she was coming back, but it would be soon and that when she did come back they would have to meet surreptitiously.

He had never heard the word 'surreptitiously' before but deduced they would have to meet on the quiet.

The icing on the cake, which filled him with excitement, was she signed the letter with 'all my love'.

All my love!!!

He had a pint to take care of and it looked up at him, from the bar, with its one white frothy eye. If he could skip he would have done but he tipped most of the Guinness down his throat. 'That's it' he said.

'From the mot?'

'Yep!'

He stood up 'I have to go.'

'Go where?' said Joe.

'I have to get to Lower Baggot Street, to take the money back to that fella – the Indian.'

'He paid you, already?'
'You told me, anything risky to get them to pay up front.'

'Yes and it's a pity you didn't make that gob shite in Clerys' pay you up front.' said Joe.

'Don't worry - I won't go near him again.'

Patrick, downed the rest of the pint and walked out. Joe noticed on the table the letter from Carmel, still out of the envelope. He picked it up and in came Patrick, grabbed the envelope from him 'Thank you' and walked back out.

'Give us a pint, Ollie, will ya' said Joe 'for Jasus sake.'

Patrick had a definite skip in his step as he walked to Lower Baggot Street: are the birds singing? Is there a lovely poetic Dubliny air about the place, about the quays about . . . about Dublin?

He knocked on a door in Lower Baggot Street, and a forty year old fella answered 'Hello' he said when he saw Patrick.

'No can do.' said Patrick, shaking his head 'me da said they need some kind of security to print ads.'
'Security for what?' he said 'isn't the money security enough?'

'I don't know' said Patrick 'it's just what my da says – no can do.'

'Come in' said the fella, and the wonderful smell of Indian cooking greeted him as he walked through the door. The fella had an Indian accent that Patrick mistook for Welsh.

'Are you – are you Welsh?'

He laughed 'No I'm from India.'

'India?'

'Yes – somebody else thought I was Welsh – Mateus Da Costa' he said as he put his hand out to shake Patrick's.

'Mateus Da Costa! I thought you were Welsh?'

'No! I'm Mateus Da Costa.'

Patrick loved the wonderful smell, which enveloped him as he sat down – the smell of real Indian food.

'I didn't think Mateus was an Indian name' - he pronounced it without the 'S' at the end.

'It's actually Portuguese' said Mateus 'I'm from Goa.'

'Goa?'

'A state in India – the Portuguese colonized India in the past; still there.'

'Well I am Patrick Callaghan – Paddy, Pat – anything you like.'

'I was in London, last year, and I met an Irishman who said 'don't call me Paddy.'

'Really?'

'Yes – he said 'call me anything but Paddy – someone was telling a joke about Paddy the Englishman, Paddy the Irishman and Paddy the Scotsman.'

'And what was the joke?'

'I can't remember.'

They both laughed.

'That was probably a bigger laugh than the joke' said Patrick.

'I'm going to give you a sample of the food I cook – the food that we would cook, or will cook, if they let us open up here – you can let me know what you think?'

'Yes sir – I didn't know the Portuguese ruled India?'

'Colonised' he said 'but only certain states. We even have a state called Hooley.'

'Hooley? We have hoolies here all the time.'

'I know, but this is pronounced with a soft gee – Hooghly.'

Mateus went into the kitchen and Patrick followed him where Mateus' wife was stirring something on the stove.

'This is my wife, Calista – this is Patrick.'

'Calista Da Costa?'

'I'm afraid so' said Calista 'It's what attracted me to him – his name.'

She turned around, wiped her right hand on her apron and held it out for Patrick who shook it gently.

'What are we going to give him to eat?'

'Maybe something I'm already cooking?'

The three of them laughed.

'Good idea' said Patrick 'Whatever that is, it smells good.'

She turned back to the stove and continued stirring a soup kind of dish, in a pan, as she added to it.

'Go and sit down and I'll bring it up when it's ready.'

'Great.' said Patrick.

'And would you like some tea?' she said.

'Tea!' said Patrick 'Where did you get tea – there's a shortage here.'

'We brought it with us.' said Mateus, and they went into the dining room.

The place had been a shop and they were hoping to convert it into a restaurant. It would only be a small restaurant and he had the idea of selling food for people to take home to eat. It wasn't a well known thing in those days but it could have been possible. There could be four or five tables to start and they planned to cook the food in the 'shop' behind the counter where there was a stove.

Up some steps at the back of the shop led into a kind of hall with a room off it where Patrick and Mateus waited. That room was going to be an exclusive dining area. It all looked very promising but newspapers didn't accept advertisements for a venture which was only a promise.

After a while Calista came in with tray carrying a pot of tea, some sugar and warm milk. Mateus poured two cups and added milk to his own 'Milk?' he asked.

'It's warm?'

'That's how we drink it in India. Do you want some?'

'Okay' said Patrick and took a sip.

Nodded his head,

Eventually Calista brought the food in: a kind of masala, was put into the middle of the table, and was dished out with flat bread and another dish of potatoes and French beans mixed together.

Patrick watched as the plates were served with the masala and some kind of potato dish. They dipped the bread into the meal and ate from it, which was new to Patrick, and they also served a coconut kind of drink called Feni, which had a cashew taste about it.

He loved the meal, really enjoying the coconut taste and the spices.

'This is what I wanted to cook if the advertisement was to go through' said Mateus 'Do you think Dubliners would like it?'

'Listen – a Dub will eat anything you put in front of him – but they might be a bit suspicious; especially in these hard times.'

Joe told him he had eaten Indian food when he was away at war as many many soldiers from India fought with them.

'I didn't eat Indian food in the Somme or any battle but when I was hospitalised they shared their food with us.'

'I didn't know the Indians fought with the British.' said Patrick.

'Maybe a million of 'em,' said Joe 'some of those boys were really boys. Ten years of age, some of them.'

'Unbelievable' said Patrick.

'Are you going to have another pint?' said Joe.

'No – I want to go to the yard – see how Finn MacCool is doing – might take him for a trot.'

Patrick went to his little stable in the yard to see his horse but it wasn't there. He looked all over, in every yard doorway but there was no sign of him.

'Have you seen my horse?' he said to a lad, 'Finn MacCool?'

The lad looked nervous 'Not today' he said.

'Has somebody taken him out?'

'I don't know.' said the lad.

Patrick looked around and noticed another horse which belonged to a friend of Joe's was missing. He knew for sure that he was away in Limerick, so his horse should be there too.

Don Cass was one of the grooms who looked after the horses when their owners were away, was nowhere to be seen. He lived in Ballybough, which wasn't very far.

'Jasus' thought Patrick 'do I have go over there?'

He got on a bus and dived into Roche's pub, which he used, but he wasn't there either.

'He's out with some horses today' he was told 'got together with a few of them, doing some racing.'

'Where?' he asked and was told it was somewhere near Finglas.

He knew a place near Finglas where there was a big field and some of the lads raced around it and bets would be placed.

Fearing the worst he went out to the field and sure enough, lads were there with four horses and one of them was Finn MacCool. He was full of mud with whip marks on his shoulder, more on his elbow and his arse. Some blood too and there was Don Cass, the bloke who was supposed to be looking after him at the starting line up.

'Hey!!!' shouted Patrick, nearly bringing his lungs up in the process.

They all look around at him 'What the hell do you think yous are doing?'

The anger that built up in Patrick was almost out of control but he was near to tears when he saw his poor horse. It was lined up with the rest of them. Twe blokes were hoilding a long rope ready to lift it for the start.

'Stop it stop it' he shouted again and ran down the track were they were due to race, and if the rope was to be lifted the horse would run over him.

Three other horses were there, from the yard, lined up and ready to go, all lads from the yard, all bare backed. A lot of money had changed hands and the shouting and the fellas trying to put a bet on had delayed the start. Patrick ran over and grabbed hold of Cass, pulling him to the ground. Huge shouts went up protesting that the race had to take place but Patrick would hear none of it. Then one of the bowsies suggested that Patrick ride Finn in the race, but Patrick took the little number they had tied to his horse and threw it to the ground.

'There's a load of money placed on your horse' was shouted.

'Why don't you play tossing?' he said as he led the horse away. 

Nice and slowly they went back into Dublin and home to The Liberties – about four and a half miles.

It took them a long time and both Patrick and Finn worn out. On the way, Finn drank water from the troughs and so did Patrick, burying his head at the same time.

At home he went into the bathroom, which was on the ground floor, they only had one floor, and filled the bath with water. Finn was left in the yard and Patrick made sure he drank more water.

Then he dumped a few towels in the bath and doused the horse to try and sooth the wounds. He gently dabbed its hind quarters where there was blood and patted him on the neck. He didn't even know how many races he had been in but it must have been a few.

'What's happened here? said Joe as he came into the yard.

'Don Cass took him to Finglas to race. The bastards – I'm not taking him back to The Yard.'

'I suppose we could keep him here,' said Joe 'Will the sty be okay?'

'No I'll put him over in the Nancy Hutch.'

It was the place where their old ass used to stay.

'All right – that'll do' said Joe.

It didn't take long to get straw and bedding for the place. There was already a wheel barrow and they would leave his two wheeled contraption at the yard as Patrick would only lead Finn or ride him in from then on.

Patrick went to the yard a few days later and cleaned out his space, put some of the straw into the wheel barrow he had with him, and wheeled it back home.

'Is your your father going to settle up with the rent?' said one of the managers.

Patrick ignored him with a stare as he wheeled his stuff home.

A journalist from the Independent newspaper visited them one day wanted do an exposé of 'The Yard' concerning the cruelty to the horses. Patrick invited him in and gave him a cup of water. When Joe came in and found out what the journalist was up to he showed him the door as he didn't want to get involved.

'We should be exposing them – I didn't know they were taking the horses out like that – how many times has Finn MacCool been out; I think we should report them.'

'Listen son' said Joe 'we don't want to get involved. Some of our best friends run that place and we might need them in the future.'

'Yes but they shouldn't be cruel to the horses, Da, no matter who our friends are. I think I'm going to that journalist – I have his card.'

'As long as you're under my roof, son, you'll do nothing of the sort.'

Patrick was shocked. His father was right, in one way, it was his house and whatever Patrick did might affect his da. He went out into the yard and into the Nancy Hutch to see if his horse was okay and went for a walk in to town, ending up at Mulligan's Pub, in Poolbeg Street.

He ordered his pint, paid for it, and sat at a table in the corner – now what was he going to do? Carmel was away, Joe was laying down the law and here he was alone.

©2024 Chris Sullivan

The Callaghans Chapter 2

 

Chapter 2

Patrick walked along O'Connell Street, on his way to meet Carmel under Clerys' clock. On the other side of the street was the galoot who handled the newspaper advertising for Clerys.

Patrick wasn't sure what he was looking at in the shop window so he crossed the street and sidled up to him.

'Mister Keogh?' he said.

Keogh turned to look at him.

'Oh . . . hello . . er?'

'You know' said Patrick 'you seem to smell me coming.'

'I . . em . How do you mean?'

'How do I mean! Every time I went in to Clerys you disappeared - maybe it's the smell of the horses on me, cos I can smell the shite from you - and before you come out with any more of it, I want to know where the money is; my money.'

'Where it is . . .'

'No! Not where it is, cos I know where it is, in your bleedin' pocket; so don't be smart with me, Mister Keogh, as I won't stand . . .

'Call me Martin . .'

'I won't call you anything but Mister Keogh. My fathChapterer will be in McDaid's this afternoon waiting for you. If you don't turn up with the money, in full - no excuses no arrangements, I'll go to your gaffer and report you.'

Keogh didn't say anything. Patrick looked into the shop window; he'd been looking at ladies' hats.

'What in the name of Ja . . . ? Why are you looking at hats' he said 'Ladies' hats?'

'I was going to . . ..'

'You wanted to buy some mot a hat. One of those you took to Bewleys – on my money?'

'No . . no . . '

'Yes, yes' said Patrick 'make sure the money is with Joe Callaghan in McDaids – they all know him in there: if he's not there give it to Oliver; the barman.'

With that, Patrick walked up to Clerys' clock to wait for Carmel.

As he waited, Keogh went into the main entrance and when Patrick saw him he said 'McDaids.'

Patrick was still waiting there, half an hour later, when Keogh came out, on his way to McDaids.

'Would you like it now?' he said.

'No give it to my father – he's waiting.'

Keogh went into McDaid's with the money. Looking around he didn't know Joe from a bar of soap so went up to the bar 'Do you know if Joe Callaghan is in here?'

'Who wants him?'said Oliver.

'My name is Martin Keogh. I have to give him this.'

He showed the barman the money.

'It's from his son.'

'He's in the jax' said Oliver. 'If you want to wait for him.'

'Will you give it to him.'

The barman stuck his hand out.

Keogh gave him the money and hightailed out of there.

Joe came in.

'I've something for you.' said Oliver.

'Oh?' said Joe, and went to the bar.

Joe didn't say anything at first, just looked at the barman.

'Is it a pint you want?'

' well . . . yes!'

'On your drip feed?'

'Erm – yes'

'Okay. This money is for Pat, is it not?'

Joe nodded and the barman winked, gave him the pint - and the money.

An hour later, Patrick was still waiting for Carmel under the clock. It was the usual place and the usual time but Carmel had never been late before. He had no way of contacting her as he didn't have her telephone number, if indeed she was on the phone. All he knew was she lived in Dún Laoghaire, had a bit of a strict mother, whom she would never criticise or disparage in front of him, and as he stood there he recounted the times they had spent together: the walks they spent in Saint Stephen's Green and the visits to Trinity College, where Carmel told him she would going to when she left school.

She took him into the College library and showed him The Book of Kells - he was very impressed. Each meeting ended with a visit to Bewley's Coffee Shop where he had taken a liking to their cream sakes.

He recounted other places where they'd been; a clothes shop, nearby, where she had imagined him in the dress of the gentry and there was a very loose fitting suit, in one place, where she cajoled the poor fella, when she got him inside to try on one of the suits.

Carmel was easily relaxed but he felt he was being made fun of by the sales people in there. He loved to hear her laugh and didn't mind her laughing at him but 'the whooring, scuttering bleedin' gob shite of a salesman . .'ah watch your language' he said to himself as he stood under Clerys clock on that forlorn day.

He looked around, as he was waiting and noticed quite a few young men in uniform where they had been to fight with the British army. Some wore bandages and showed other signs of injuries, like crutches, once or twice wheel chairs and some as fit as a fiddle with a girl on their arm al knowing that it hadn't finished yet and they'd be going back.

Across the road, he looked at the Pillar – Nelson's Pillar – standing so high. At the top he saw people milling about, looking over the side, but like many Dubs he had never been up there.

And what was the use of Nelson in any case? Nothing to do with Ireland.

'A good place for people to meet' he thought to himself 'the Pillar or Clerys' clock.'

He had been too young to join the British Army and his father, Joe, obviously too old, had done his bit in the first war. Patrick wondered if he had been old enough would he have volunteered. The country wasn't totally free of the the British, in those days, and was approaching a time when it would no longer be attached to it at all.

His face was as long as O'Connell Steet when he joined his father in McDaid's.

'No Carmel today?' he said to Patrick, when he arrived.

'No!'

'Oh, I thought that was on for today?'

'I thought so too' said Patrick, and he slumped into a chair.

'Give this fella a pint, Ollie'

'Chalk it up Joe?'

'I guess so.'

Maybe he thinks I'm coming into money he thought to himself as the barman put the pint on the bar to settle.

Patrick went to Clerys' clock every day at two-o-clock, waited an hour then moved on.

Was it love? How did Patrick know? Maybe he didn't know what love was; the only love he had 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 Keogh 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 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 Keogh might know her address.

Instead of going to Joe in McDaid's, he went into Clerys to sort 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 Keogh.

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

Keogh 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! Are they on the turf?'

'Certainly not' said Keogh.

'Well why are they looking at you?'

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, and, most importantly 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.'

'Into thin air.' said Joe 'like a fart in a colonder.'

He sat back in his chair.

'I'll go out there tomorrow.' said Patrick

'You gettn' a bus?'

Patrick was staring at the settling pint on the bar.

'Or the train' said Joe '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 MacCool, 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 and 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 MacCool 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 MacCool back to Molyneux Yard, which they called 'The Lane.'

He was a rare thing in 1940s Ireland, an only child: his brothers were still away in the British Army 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.

Conor was around thirty, or so, and had been in the army for ten years and his brother was working for the railways in Manchester having moved there just before the war. A job on the railways meant he was in reserved occupation but he also joined the 'Home Guard' which was a reserve service.

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.

Patrick didn't expect those two galoots to be at Joe's, on his demise, and even if they did he would hardly recognise them. The youngest, Brendan, was seven 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.

Some of the couples in there at that time were seeing their fella off to war and having a last cuddle. Once or twice it was the girl on her way back to war.

The half hour walk made him think about things. He was only a young fella, eighteen, 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.

There were a lot of soldiers on the train. Some of their wives and girls friends stayed on the train preparing to see the boat leave the quay to Holyhead others parted at the station with tears as they left their Nancies, Marys and Biddies and some of those Nancies, Marys and Biddies were their mothers.

Not a habit, of his, taking the train. Others, none military, 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 engine, or was it steam, 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 there it was just out of 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.

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.

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

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.

'Who is Reverend Wilde? Oh . . and where will I find him?' said Patrick.

'Up at the Methodist church. Where else do you think you'd find him?' said the paper boy.

'I have no diea what you're talking about?'

'The Methodists don't have priests – they have Reverends.' said the baldy fella.

'Where's the church?' said Patrick.

'The Methodist church?'

'Is he the priest there?'

'They have Reverends.' said the baldy fella behind the counter again.

'His name is on the door.' said the paper kid.

'How will I find it?' asked Patrick.

'Find what?'

'The church – the bleedin' Methodist church.'

'I tell you what' said the paper boy 'If you walk towards the coast 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.'

'What road, what street?'

'Haig Terrace' said the paper boy.

'Ask anybody' said the baldy headed fella behind the counter, 'and they'll tell ya – Haig Terrace.'

Patrick went out into the street. Now which way . . he saw an old gentleman 'could you tell me where Haig Terrace . .'

'Przepraszam – nie mówię po angielsku i szukam nabrzeża – wiesz gdzie to jest?'

Patrick wondered if he'd wandered into another world.

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

He had no idea which was the way to the beach or the sea; how could he? He figured which way the train had arrived, and that was coming south, so walked down a street which was heading east - Haig Terrace.

He took that and what could be simpler there was the Methodist Church he was looking for? It didn't look very inviting in fact it was hard to figure where the entrance was.

There was section of the building to the right which had a kind of door and on it was a notice. – All enquiries to the Reverend Wilde and it gave the house number in Haig Terrace.

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

He walked down to the number: a big house with steps leading up to the front door, which he knocked.

Nora Wilde opened it; neither of them said a word; just looked at each other.

Eventually 'What can I do for you, Mister Callaghan?'

'Is Carmel at home?'

'And why would you want Carmėl?' and before he could answer 'and 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.'

Reverend Wilde appeared from somewhere in the house. This was a man closer to seventy than sixty, which made Patrick think that Carmel was an after thought and no wonder she went away to school even though it was as near as a good walk from home.

'Everything all right, Nora?' then he saw Patrick 'Oh! Patrick Callaghan, I presume' he said, in an accent from Armagh, in the north of Ireland, 'who has been seeing my – our daughter?'

'Yes sir, yes.'

'Well, Mr Callaghan, my daughter is sixteen and a half years of age.'

Patrick was struck dumb.

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

'The same? The, the the . . same what?'

'Mister Callaghan, I'm warning you: 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, Mister Callaghan; keep away.'

And he closed the door.

©2024 Chris Sullivan