by Mick Moran
Andy mixed more mortar in his bucket and continued with the jointing. Maybe he was more prepared for it mentally, but the cold seemed more bearable than it did earlier. Andy worked on steadily. It was not until he was jointing the last pipe laid that Martin returned, just as Andy was getting concerned about him.
“Were you waiting for me to catch up?” asked Andy. The question was meant as a joke, but it got no reply from Martin. Instead, without a word Martin continued laying the pipes, leaving Andy feeling totally snubbed. Andy picked up his bucket and walked away to mix some more mortar. Pondering on martin’s unsociable behaviour, he realised it was not just him. Everyone that came in contact with Martin was aware of it. But, he was getting the brunt of it and could think of no reason why. Martin was so uncommunicative. Whatever it was that was troubling him, he was keeping to himself.
By lunchtime, most of the pipes were laid, although Andy had fallen considerably behind with the jointing again. Martin didn’t go in the cabin at lunchtime, which seemed to cause Michael some concern. “Where’s Martin” he asked, looking at John.
“I think he’s gone for a quick pint.”
“He’s a strange man.”
John just shook his head. It was no big deal, he thought, Martin often goes for a pint at lunchtime. Andy remained silent. There was no other mention of Martin.
After lunch the fog had lifted but it wasn’t much warmer. The wind still felt bitterly cold. Andy hurried to get into the trench, where it was sheltered from the wind. He was surprised to find Martin already there. He was even more surprised at Martin’s almost friendly acknowledgement and comment.
“Another hour and we should be finished here.”
“I wonder what he’ll have us doing then.”
“The drains I laid yesterday need back filling. He might have us doing that.”
Andy nodded. He didn’t relish it. Although the physical exercise would be welcome, they would be exposed to the cold wind. Then they heard John’s voice above them with a much more attractive proposal.
“Ye’re doing very well. When ye’re finished here I think we’ll call it a
day.”
Andy looked at Martin, fearful that he would disagree. But, to his relief Martin nodded. “Right O,” he said
Maybe it was the pint he had, but something, thought Andy, had put Martin in a better mood that afternoon. Although conversation was still minimal, strictly work related, Andy could sense that Martin was more relaxed and at ease.
John walked up to the top house to inform Kevin that they would be finishing soon. Not that he was in charge of the painters: they were sub-contracting the work and worked the hours that suited themselves. John was just being courteous.
“I won’t be long after you,” said Kevin “as soon as I’ve finished this room.”
“Aren’t you lonely here all on your own all day?”
“Oh I get an odd visitor. Martin came to see me earlier.”
“Martin!”
“Oh yes. He was keen to know about Des’s uncle. He seemed very concerned.”
“Strange. I didn’t know that he even knew him.”
“Oh, he did. But, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell him much at the time. I had better news for him later; after I talked to Des’s wife on the Phone.”
“He came to see you again?”
“No I saw him in the pub.”
“Oh, he likes his dinner time pint.”
“He does. But, he didn’t seem to be enjoying it very much today.”
“No. He seemed a troubled man today all right. Did you say you had better news for him.?”
“Oh I did. It seems Kevin’s uncle will pull through after all.”
“That’s good news. Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
As Kevin finished his painting he thought about what John had said about Martin being a troubled man. When Kevin saw him at lunchtime he certainly looked troubled. It was as he was finishing his phone call that he spotted Martin hurrying past the phone box. Martin, with his head down, apparently deep in thought, hadn’t seen Kevin. In fact he seemed oblivious to everything that was going on around him.
On finishing the phone call Kevin called after Martin. He’d just got more information, which he thought would interest him. But, Martin was too far away to hear his call. Kevin, however, knew Martin was going to the pub and decided to follow him. In any case, he hadn’t brought any lunch and would get a sandwich there.
When Kevin entered the taproom, Martin was already sat down with a pint of Guinness. Kevin wondered if Martin ever ate anything at Lunchtime. He thought, probably not. Maybe Martin was living evidence that there is something in what they say about Guinness; “there’s eating and drinking in it.”
Kevin wasn’t sure how to approach Martin. On the few occasions when Kevin had called in the pub previously, Martin was always sat on his own. He didn’t like company it was said. Nevertheless, Kevin always found him friendly enough, although only the odd word was exchanged between them.
“Hello again Martin,” greeted Kevin as he walked to the bar. The greeting was acknowledged with just a nod from Martin.
Carrying a pint and a sandwich Kevin took a chance and sat down at Martin’s table opposite Martin, then ventured a joke.
“I bet the sweat was rolling off you this morning.”
Looking sullen and unsociable Martin eyed Kevin with suspicion, before replying gloomily. “I was sweating all right; from the nose though.”
Kevin laughed. He was pleased that Martin had responded, if not cheerfully. “I bet a lot of navvies were sweating from the nose this morning. I suppose they keep the ground moist.”
Looking doleful Martin made no reply.
Kevin decided that that was enough of the joviality. “I talked to Des’s wife on the phone,” he said. That got Martin’s interest as Kevin continued. “Des was at the hospital, but he rang to say that the uncle was improving and would be all right.
Visibly pleased, Martin asked, “do you know what’s wrong with him?”
“No, I didn’t ask.”
Martin nodded and had a drink of his Guinness. Then, looking more relaxed, he got his pipe out and started to light it. Kevin decided to leave before the smoke choked him.
Chapter 6. Martin.
“You’re first in this evening Martin,” remarked Nora in her usual friendly voice, as she pulled him a pint of stout.
“Yes mam”
Nora was content with the response. She didn’t expect an explanation from Martin, who she knew as a man of very few words, especially with women. While he would never be discourteous, she got the impression that mainly he didn’t talk to women. Nevertheless she liked Martin. “It’s such a cold day, I’ve kept the fire going all day.” She informed him. She knew that Martin who worked out in the cold all day appreciated the fire more than most.
“Thank you mam” replied Martin
Nora watched him slope towards his favourite seat by the fire.
His big stocky frame seemed to bend more than usual. The hard work as a navvy, she thought, was taking its toll.
As she prepared the bar, she occasionally glanced down at Martin, although no word was spoken. She wondered why he finished work so early and thought he looked a little sadder than usual. Although someone who didn’t know him so well might see him as the picture of contentment, as he sat looking into the fire with his pint and his pipe, his face glowing from the heat of the fire.
Martin had a lot on his mind. On top of his other problems he’d just lost his job. Some would say it was his own fault for walking away. But, he was a proud man and anyone who knew him, knew that staying and grovelling was just not in his nature. There was a time when he would have physically fought Eddy and “to hell with the consequences.” But, the years had mellowed Martin. He had just walked away, shaking his head in disgust, saying, “I’ve had enough of you.
Martin had enough of Eddy. He had enough of being put under pressure to cut corners. He took pride in his work and hated not doing it properly. Martin knew those pipes would leak. Martin had laid the pipes but it was Eddy himself who did the jointing. It was a rushed job. Eddy had said he couldn’t wait for Martin.
Eddy had complained vociferously when the clerk mentioned retesting the pipes, but he had no great cause for doing so. The clerk was more lenient than he might have been. He didn't ask for the pipes to be uncovered. He simply asked for someone to pour a bucket of water into the manhole that was situated higher up than the line of pipes in question while he watched the water flow into the manhole lower down.
Two lines of pipes were tested that day. The one that Martin was backfilling that morning was fine, as Martin knew it would be: he had done all the work on it himself.
The other line of pipes, however failed. It was so leaky that no water reached the lower manhole. Therefore the clerk required it all to be dug out again and the pipes re-laid.
Eddy had done the job so quickly that Martin knew that it couldn’t have been done properly, but who was Martin to complain. Taking the blame for it, though, was something else. "Shoddy workmanship," Eddy had said to the clerk-of-works. That was more than Martin could take.
That evening Martin was feeling his age. Although, in a way relieved to be out of that job, looking for another seemed more daunting than it used to be. Previously, for Martin, loosing his job was no big deal. It happened so many times before. But, times were better then. Navvies, like Martin, were constantly changing jobs. Job security was given low priority. It was unusual, some would say unnatural, to stay with one firm for long. Those who did were often looked upon with suspicion; seen as company men. Martin, however, had reached the age where he was expected to have a bit of security. Not that Martin could ever be called a company man. Although, a consciences worker, “sucking up to the gaffer” was never his style. It wasn’t the first time Martin had walked off the job.
That evening it was not just the loss of his job that was worrying him. Although finding another job was an added burden he could have done without, he had other more pressing problems to deal with. His troubles started a week earlier. He had again got a reminder of an event that happened in his distant past, but this time it could not be ignored.
Nora brought Martin another pint. She wouldn’t do that for anyone. Customers had to go to the bar. But she was pleased to sometimes make an exception of Martin: even that evening when he barely looked at her as she put the glass down in front of him. He hardly seemed aware of thanking her as he handed her a pound note. But, she didn’t wish to disturb him. His thoughts seemed far away as he sat gazing into the fire and smoking his pipe.
There was a warm glow from the fire. That was what mainly attracted martin to Nora’s pub that cold February evening, purely and simply, he would say because he spent all day out in the cold. He was not one for flights of fancy or reminiscences. That evening, however, maybe he was more vulnerable, because, the red and blue flames took him back over forty years, to the warmth and security of a thatched cottage in the West of Ireland.
Much bigger flames from a turf fire danced round a black pot, which was hanging over the fire. The little boy’s face was level with the flames. He was sat on the tiny three-legged stool, made especially for him by his father who had recently returned from England. As he clung to the corduroy britches of his father, who was sat on a chair next to him, he thought how good it was to have his father home again. He felt so warm and secure.
Other big men also sat around smoking pipes. They often came to his house in the long winter evenings. Some of them had also recently returned from England. Martin loved the smell of tobacco and the tales they told about working on the big farms of Lincolnshire.
It was the talk about what was politely called the troubles that really fascinated Martin. However, much to his frustration, he knew that it was a subject that should not be discussed in his presence. Whenever it was brought up he was aware that it was immediately dropped when it was realised he was amongst them. Therefore the subject was left until after Martin had gone to bed; or so the adults thought. Children, however, are often more aware of what is going on than adults give them credit for. Martin understood very well what was meant by the troubles, and the apparent secrecy only served to increase his curiosity. But, he was a lonely boy and kept his interest to himself. Although many an hour was spent listening at the door, when the adults believed he was safely tucked up in bed.
Later, when the black-and-tans came, Martin knew more about them than almost anyone his age. Less excluded then, Martin had his youthful passions fired by tales of great battles with the tans. The tans were a bad lot, he knew, only there to deny the Irish the freedom they longed for. Tales of heroism in the fight against them were constantly circulating. In his dreams, Martin was one of those heroes, a great patriot.
Martin wished there were some action in his area. It seemed to be happening everywhere else. All over the country Irishmen were taking on the tans, and winning, but around there the tans had it all their own way. Martin was angered by stories of the tans helping themselves to whatever they wished for from farms and shops. The people were too frightened to resist. The tans had such a fearsome reputation. But, Martin also heard the tans were a “cowardly lot:” a theory he would soon put to the test.
***
Martin’s past had caught up with him again, he thought. It seemed he would never get away from it, no matter how he tried. He had spent all his life running away from it, and for long periods, he was able, to at least partially put it out of his mind. Now he was reliving it again. It was the letter that confirmed it. Martin knew that letter was meant for him, although addressed to Michael O’Malley. He had a similar letter when he lived in Birmingham. There, he went by the name of Michael O’Malley. Only a few knew it was not his real name, but they thought little of it. On building sites, or in the places where Martin lived, an assumed name wasn’t questioned.
Then one day, after twenty years of peaceful living in Sparkhill Birmingham, a letter arrived. He didn’t know who sent it. It was left for him while he was at work. But, it was clearly from someone who knew about his past or at least the version that was widely believed at the time it happened. It was not really a letter, just a short note.
Remember Jimmy Casey?
Don’t think you’ve got away with it.
You’ll still pay.
Martin wasn’t unduly worried. It was just a crank, he thought, who would never carry out the threat. Nevertheless, soon after, when his job came to an end, he decided to lea
ve Birmingham and headed up North. He went back to ‘Mary’s’ where he’d stayed twenty years earlier. Mary, as she does with everyone, made him feel very welcome. He liked the sound of his own name again. He felt like he’d come home.
In the last year he was often described as a very contented man. Recent events, however, changed all that. A week earlier he’d opened the letter. The opportunity arose one evening when he was alone in the house. As he boiled the kettle, to make himself a cup of tea, he steamed open the letter, which had been lying on the mantelpiece for over a week. As he feared, it was an identical note to the one that he got in Birmingham. He put it in his pocket and resealed and replaced the empty envelope. There was no need to frighten Michael O’Malley. However, Martin’s worst fears were confirmed when he heard what happened to Michael. He felt responsible and helpless.
On Saturday, in desperation he went to his priest and told him everything. Father Downey was sympathetic and seemed to understand. Nevertheless Martin felt very uncomfortable talking about events he hadn’t discussed with anyone for over forty years. The priest urged him to go to the police. But, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He never trusted the police. He always felt he could sort out his own problems. Whatever came he could take.
Now it wasn’t just him and that was what was tormenting him. Another man, a decent man, was lying on a hospitable bed and maybe would die, because of his inaction and, of course, a misunderstanding of what happened in the past.
Over forty years had passed, but the memory of that terrible event was still so vivid it might have been yesterday, he thought. Although, Martin’s role was a minor one he knew that it was his name that was remembered and hated for it.
Martin thought, again of that turbulent time of his youth. Although he didn’t know it that the time, he realised later that he was propelled into something that he was too young and naive to handle. That short period of his life, which he remembered so vividly, was almost totally out of his control. In his previous quiet peaceful existence he longed for more excitement. Then, suddenly he had more than he ever wished for. To the local people, for a short time he was a hero, then a villain. It was, he realised, the short-lived hero status that got him carried away. It went to his head despite doubting that he ever deserved it.
It all started that warm, autumn, Sunday afternoon. The six boys met as usual in the ball-alley. When the tans wagon stopped outside the alley, initially the boys were just curious. Even when threatened by the tans, in his naivety Martin showed no fear at first. His peaceful upbringing and youthful spirit had made him a bold boy. Looking back then, Martin thought it was probably his youth that saved him. The tan, always on the lookout for conspiracies against them, would have been relieved to find such young boys playing an innocent game of handball in the alley.
