Trinity: A Novel of Ireland

by Leon Uris

  In his office beneath Boilermaker Stadium Crawford cracked his knuckles vociferously as he studied the rosters of all the amateur clubs in the surrounding counties. Relief, it appeared, was not in sight.

  "Come in," he growled to a knock on his door.

  Conor entered his oversized cubbyhole and approached the rolltop desk. "You probably don't remember me. We had a drink in Derry a few years back. You invited me to try out for the club. Larkin, Conor Larkin."

  Crawford squinted in non-recognition.

  "Bogside," Conor clued.

  "Jesus, it must have been a century ago."

  "Yeah, was a long time. I'm off ship and considering a move to Belfast so I'm looking for a job and a team."

  "Bogside? You played garlic football, didn't you?"

  "That's right but I played some Northern League rugby in Australia a couple seasons back. The Melbourne Outbacks."

  Crawford studied the gray flecks in his temples and the seaman's weathered face. "How old are you, Larkin?"

  "Thirty-one."

  The coach grimaced from a sharp gas pain. He shook his head. "Well, we ain't the half-assed Outbacks. I had three men go downhill on me just like that this year, all younger than you. Too tough a game for old men."

  "I'm tough enough," Conor asserted softly.

  Crawford liked swagger in a man. He fished about into the vagueness of the past and recalled somewhat that Larkin had impressed him with his strength. Crawford's eyes went up, then down. Nothing in Larkin's appearance indicated he had grown weak. On the other hand, twenty five years as coach and player told him there was no such thing as a guy showing up off a ship and making a club.

  "What position?"

  "Front row, loose head prop."

  Jesus Christ, Crawford thought, one of his glaring weak spots. Bart Wilson had held the position for nine years, then suddenly thinned out. The team had been unable to control the scrums for the lack of sheer strength in the front row. On the other hand . . . a front-row prop just doesn't walk in off a ship.

  "Really think you can cut it, man?"

  Conor shrugged. "I'm here. At this point in the season, we've got nothing to lose by giving me a tryout."

  "All right, Larkin, I'll give you a try," he said with an air of magnanimity, "but don't get your fucking hopes up eh?"

  "There's a job that goes with it, right?"

  "If you make the club."

  "I'm a blacksmith."

  "So you are," Crawford said. "Doxie!"

  His summons was answered by a squat beer-bellied man looking off horse in rugby shorts. His moon-shaped ruddy Irish face held an off-center flattened nose and other mementos of service to the sport. "Doxie O'Brien, coach of the junior squad and my assistant. This here's Conor Larkin, one of your people from Londonderry. He wants a tryout. Played garlic and the Northern League game in Australia . . . the Sydney Outhouses or something. Look him over."

  While Conor was told to wait outside, Crawford opened his desk drawer and unfurled a bottle of paddy.

  "You shouldn't be hitting the stuff the way your stomach is tore." Crawford ignored Doxie's advice and passed the bottle.

  "I genuinely and sincerely like his spirit," Derek said in answer to Doxie's quizzical stare. "I clearly remember him. Strong as boilerplate."

  "Shit. The way the season's going, you're casting lingering looks at every outsized docker and iceman. It's one thing to run over a bunch of skinny micks and another to play Northern League. What the fuck we got here, a nursery?"

  "What about the Australian Outcasts . . ."

  "What do they know about the game down there?"

  "Enough so Sir Frederick is considering a tour down under, that's what. Give him a tryout."

  "For Christ sake . . ."

  "Bugger off, Doxie."

  *

  Boilermaker Stadium, an eighteen-thousand-seat gem and one of the first of steel structure, was another of Frederick Weed's personal plums. He had been a rugby great at Cambridge, a scrum half who was long remembered. After Cambridge he won eight caps in international play as a member of the Scottish National Team and another two for the Irish National Team after moving to Ulster.

  Shortly after he opened his yard, the East Belfast Boilermakers became his creation, alter ego, and a monument to his past prowess. He coached them and played in the company of ship fitters and riveters until the demands of his growing empire and his growing girth dictated he quit as an active player, but his interest in the sport never dimmed. Weed built a club that was the pride of Ulster, the scourge of Ireland and one which gained mindful respect over the water. He stocked it with players to whom he gave special consideration, jobs and favoritism. This brought him and the Boilermakers smack into the great rugby confrontation over professionalism.

  The amateur game was winked at not only by Sir Frederick but in the English industrial Midlands, where the players were miners and factory hands and money was passed to them freely. Confronted with breaking up their clubs, they bolted the parent Rugby Union and formed the professional Northern Rugby League. The Boilermakers joined and became the first and only professional Irish team.

  In addition to salary, a paid-for home in Bangor, and use of a hunting lodge in Scotland, the new Boilermaker stadium finally lured Derek Crawford away from the Brighouse Rangers in which he held a part ownership. The stadium adjoined the yard, all set in deep Ulster green and back dropped by jetties, slip ways dry and wet docks and the four great smokestacks of the steel mill. Beyond that, the azure expanse of Lough Belfast. Sir Frederick's personal box and lounge on the roof was unique, a show place of trophies, a viewing place of unparalleled luxury containing its own bar and dining room.

  Also unique were the players' facilities below the stadium, with personal spaces for each man and showers with soap and towels provided by the club. It held the only players' lounge in the United Kingdom with leather chairs, a billiard table, darts and a bar with a bottomless Guinness dispenser.

  Small wonder that every growing boy in Belfast envisioned himself a member of the Boilermakers, for it meant a top job, local fame, a tour of the English Midlands and a chance to earn double a normal salary.

  *

  Conor and Doxie O'Brien walked out of the tunnel way onto the grounds as the yard whistle screamed, followed by a massive march of workers along King William Channel. Lunch buckets in hand and dirt of the day lingering on their faces, they slowed and some stopped to catch a glimpse of the heroes at practice.

  "Don't get your hopes up," Doxie said through his teeth.

  "I've already heard that once today."

  "Look, man, Sir Frederick and Crawford got nothing against you and me being Catholic if you're good enough to make the club. However, we're carrying one more R.C. than usual and before they take another you'd better be half again as good."

  "I am," Conor said.

  As the players entered the grounds and moved down to the tunnel they looked Conor over with respectful hatred. He knew he was being sized up and in the next hour, day and week he would be battered and bashed and otherwise have to prove himself worthy of their company. A few cold greetings, no handshakes.

  "By the way," Conor said, "there was a lad out of Derry named Mick McGrath who tried out about eight years back. I was looking over some of the team photographs. I couldn't spot him."

  "McGrath out of Derry? An R.C.?"

  "Aye."

  "I vaguely remember. He never got past the juniors. Took an injury, then later went to work at the yard. Seems I remember hearing he left. Talk to enough priests around Belfast, maybe you can find him."

  "Conor! Conor Larkin!" a voice called.

  "Well, what do you know. Jeremy Hubble himself! How are you, runt?"

  Lord Coleraine was neither man nor boy, something in between at nineteen, a sprouting weed.

  "Now let's be having a look at you, Jeremy. How close are you standing to your razor these days?"

  "Conor, it's smashing to see you!"

  "A
nd the same back to you. How's your lovely mother?"

  "Fine. She'll be absolutely delighted to know I've run into you."

  "And your brother Christopher?"

  "Oh, he's off in London studying at the School of Economics and the Inns of Court. Law and business and the like."

  "And are you working here for your grandfather?"

  Jeremy's smile flashed of his mother. "I'm studying to be the black sheep. I'll be going to Trinity in Dublin at the end of the year but Grandfather and I are in a conspiracy to let me make the tour with the team. I'm a full member of the juniors, you know." Jeremy stopped short, realizing Conor was wearing a practice uniform, and his handsome face broadened. "Are you going to play for the Boilermakers?"

  “It's highly likely," Conor said, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder. "I certainly want no advantages because of past friendships, but in the event I make the club I'll be working in the yard. Maybe, just maybe, you might put in a word with your good mother . . ."

  "What, Conor?"

  "Oh, it's a bit silly."

  "No, tell me, I insist."

  "I've had a yen to work around trains since I was a youngster of your age. It would be the thrill of my entire life if I could blacksmith around the locomotive shop."

  Jeremy flashed another smile, winked and dashed off down the tunnel to change. Conor flushed at the surge of luck. Things were going his way. If he could only hold up his end and make the bloody club, Jeremy would get him right into the middle of the yard.

  *

  Several days after Conor's debut he was still being asked back to practice. He had been grudgingly named "The Blacksmith" and attempts to keep him off the club were proving costly.

  Within minutes of the first scrummages Conor always found himself in possession of the ball and forced to run with it. The ball would be tossed to him slowly and badly in order to give the pack a chance to converge. The instant his hands were on it, bodies crunched in audible impact along with assorted trip pings groin kicks, butts, forearm blows, shin blasts and kneeings.

  Conor chose not to respond in kind but played rugby. He ran over the smaller backs and rendered a number of the bigger ones senseless. Their desire to devour him was steadily tempered by the demands of self-preservation.

  Once Conor established his ability to survive, the other qualities of his game came to the fore. He was a thunderous kicker and sure-handed in passing and receiving. His tackling was intelligent in use of lanes and angles to cut off swifter backs. Once he got his hands on a runner, the runner went down. The brightest aspect was an ability to carry the ball in close to the opponent's goal line where he bulled his way through tacklers with terrifying power.

  Despite the surprising show Conor was far from a polished player and could be badly burned by his mistakes. What seemed logical to both Derek Crawford and Doxie O'Brien was to put him on the juniors and hope he would develop faster than he aged.

  *

  A summons to Sir Frederick's office never failed to upset the delicate balance in Derek Crawford's stomach. He approached the building as though it were at the end of a long plank, heading overboard. The coach was surprised to see the usual scowl absent from Sir Frederick's face and more surprised to see Lady Caroline pacing the office.

  "Derek," Sir Frederick said, getting right to it, "Lady Caroline has a personal interest in the Larkin chap."

  "Yes, sir." Crawford sighed at the reprieve. "I gathered that from Lord Jeremy. He worked at Hubble Manor a time back?"

  "Yes, that's right," Caroline said.

  "How's he shaping up?" Sir Frederick asked.

  Crawford scratched his jaw. "He's got the makings, all right. Strong as a fucking . . . sorry, m'lady, strong as a bull. Fine pair of hands, boots the ball well, but you know this is the Boilermakers and the man is over thirty. I just can't tell how he'll hold up in the week-after-week grind. Then, there's the fine points of the game. Takes time and experience to learn."

  "Larkin is an extremely intelligent man," Caroline said with oversimplification of the problem. "He'll grasp things quickly."

  "Perhaps he will, but I don't want to go losing any more games just to advance his schooling."

  Sir Frederick rattled his fingers on the desk and exchanged glances with his daughter. "Derek, what would you say if we carry him as an alternate?"

  Up till now Weed had been rather gentle and undemanding. Crawford realized that the "request" had bite to it. "If I could force-feed him, push him along."

  "What will you require, Derek?"

  Crawford fidgeted. "Well, let's say we gave him some highly special tutoring. In my mind, Robin MacLeod has the best rugby mind of us all. If Sir Frederick isn't averse to letting MacLeod off work early and putting him with Larkin say two or three hours a day before regular practice"

  "Fine with me. Go on and arrange it."

  Crawford heaved a sigh as the tummy sputtered up. "There's one more slight problem. We've got six R.C.s on the club. We've never carried seven. If Larkin makes it he'd be replacing Bart Wilson. Bart's, well, you know, an old-timer and it might be unpopular. I mean, Bart's large in the Orange Order. It will have a bad scant all over East Belfast what with him being replaced by a Catholic in mid-season.

  "Oh, horseshit," Weed grumbled. He chewed on his cigar end, bit it off and twirled it between his lips in meditation. "I'll call Bart in myself and suggest he resign for the good of the club. There'll be a foremanship open for him so he'll suffer no loss in salary."

  "In that case," Crawford said, "you'll find him totally loyal for the good of the team. Bart will personally, himself, keep all the rumbles quiet." He arose and left in obvious relief.

  Weed threw up his hands to signify "capitulation" to his daughter's desires and she pinched his cheek and told him he was a dear.

  "By the way," she said, "Larkin's going to work at the farrier shop."

  "Hummmm, yes, I guess so, he's a blacksmith or something."

  "Hardly, Freddie. You saw the work he did at the Manor. I don't think it's quite fitting to have an ironmaster shoeing horses. Just by chance, Jeremy mentioned something about Larkin having a preference for the forge near the locomotive shop."

  "See here, Caroline, those chaps down there take their seniority seriously . . . I can't go about buggering up the whole yard."

  "Do you know what occurred to me? It would be absolutely smashing if Larkin executed something which you could present as a gift to the new City Hall. You see, if he's on a special commission, then there won't be all that bother about seniority and petty jealousies."

  "Good Lord, you've thought of everything. All right. That's more than I bargained for, but I'll do it. Now, for your half of the bargain. Jeremy is to take the tour with the team."

  "Freddie, I made no such deal."

  "Oh yes, you did and I have just given you the shirt off my back."

  "Freddie, that boy has you wrapped around his little finger. He's got to have special tutoring if he's to get into Trinity. He just can't go trotting off to the Midlands."

  "Oh yes, he can."

  "Christopher is a year younger than Jeremy and is halfway through a most difficult course of studies."

  "Quid pro quo, my darling Caroline, quid pro quo. I've disrupted my entire operation for this Larkin chap and you will keep your end of the bargain."

  "You are a bastard. Roger will be insane with anger."

  He roared out a laugh. "Roger is your domain, darling; besides, you've a powerful selling point with that paddy of yours on the team."

  "I don't understand."

  "Well, what better chaperon for Jeremy than the Larkin chap? Good old friends and all that."

  Caroline looked into his impish grin, knowing he was going to get his way. "Very well," she sighed, "but let me break it to Roger in my own good time."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Matthew MacLeod and a gang of his pals pressed against the kitchen window. Inside, his daddy and Conor Larkin all but filled the tiny room.

&n
bsp; "That's him!" Matt cried. "Conor Larkin!"

  "Aw, look at the size of him, would ye. With them feet of his, he'd keep right on standing a long time after they shot him."

  "My daddy says he could run through a brick wall. Yesterday in practice he scored a try with three men hanging all over him."

  The side-by-side MacLeod houses on Tobergill were landmarks of some note. Morgan, the patriarch, was a foreman of the "Big Mabel" dry dock, a stalwart of the Orange Order and church. His son Robin was one of the best rugby players in Belfast. Whenever Robin brought a teammate home it was always a neighborhood event.

  Robin MacLeod liked the cut of Conor Larkin the instant the two bashed heads on the playing field. As for Conor, Robin reminded him of Mick McGrath in many ways. He was built a bit like Mick, solid, quick and game with strong good looks and sporting a head of sandy curls. Robin was the on-the-field brains and spark of the Boilermakers and when Conor was assigned to team up with him for schooling they hit it off right away.

  Matt had been shuttled outside but Lucy fluttered back and forth with a number of unscheduled appearances. Just as they settled in for some serious study, Morgan made his entry.

  "Tis a rare pleasure, indeed," Morgan said, pumping Conor's hand, and after amenities Nell followed, and then a number of neighbor men who wished a word to the wise with the new Boilermaker so they could report their findings at the pub. Loose head prop was a non-sectarian position. It was the team that counted. Conor was accepted as one of the more outstanding examples of his religion, a man with a trade like themselves.

  "For Chrissake keep them lugs out of here so we can work!" Robin shouted to Lucy after one more interruption.

  "Would it be better if we did this at my digs?" Conor asked.

  "Naw, they'll settle down in a few days and leave us be."