‘That stairs is the quickest way. When you get upstairs it’s the third room on the left, the same as the hand you write with.’
She took his hand and held it up for a second. Francis liked that. He was the only boy in the class who wrote with his left hand and it made him feel special. Martin used to write with his left hand too, but he didn’t any more because a nun, who was gone from the school now, Sister Magdelene, used to hit him on the knuckles with a ruler until he learned to use his right hand. Martin kept telling him that bad things like that were going to happen to him in school but they never did.
Francis felt really excited going up to where the big girls were. He wondered what the message was. He wanted to open it and read it but he was afraid to get caught. The corridor upstairs looked exactly the same as downstairs. There wasn’t a sound. Francis stopped outside the third door on the left and knocked. He heard a growly voice. He knew it must be Sister Ignatius. Even though he had never spoken to her, he had heard her talking to other pupils in the corridor. And seen her. She looked much older than Sister Goretti because she was bent over and her face was really white like paper, but she could move just as fast and never had to raise her voice. When she appeared in the corridor everyone suddenly became quiet and walked more slowly and stood up straight.
‘Tar isteach.’
Francis opened the door and stepped in. The first thing he noticed was all the eyes that turned silently to look at him. Every single girl in the class. It was like a picture he had seen in a storybook of the forest at night, all black except for loads of owls’ eyes staring. He couldn’t see his sister. He stopped where he was. The eyes made him feel like they were going to get him.
‘Yes, what is it?’
Francis was glad to be able to turn away from all the eyes.
‘Sister Goretti said to give you this.’
‘Well then, tar anseo, come here – dún an doras.’
Francis stepped forward then turned and went back to the door. As he closed it he heard Sister Ignatius.
‘Lean ar aghaidh a chailíní.’
When he turned again not a single eye was on him apart from the old nun’s. All the big girls had their heads down, staring at their books. He didn’t dare look for his sister Marian now. He began to walk across the classroom. Then he noticed the smell. Since his very first day in school Francis knew the convent had special smells. The boys’ toilets had a smell that made his eyes sting but there was a nicer smell that he breathed in the first time he walked through the front door. It was everywhere. A long time after, he found out that this smell came out of a big tin and was rubbed into all the floors. His mam told him it was just polish the same as she used at home, but it wasn’t. He smelled his mam’s tin of polish and it was a bit like it all right, but not the same. Sometimes older boys stayed back after school and were given cloth to wrap around their shoes. Then the nuns put the stuff on the floors. They called it wax and the older boys skated up and down making the floor shine. Francis’ class did it this year and he thought it was great fun, even though his mother said who did those nuns think they were, making slaves out out the children.
Sometimes a boy in class was even more smelly than wax. One day Padraig Leddin told Francis that there was a smell off him. He nearly started crying because it was true. The reason was, even though he ran, he didn’t get to the toilet on time. He hoped that no one would notice but once Padraig Leddin said it then other boys sitting near him said it too and made faces. When the bell rang Francis ran out of the class and out the big door and all the way to the gate and didn’t stop. Some of the boys had followed him shouting ‘Smelly Strong’ after him but they couldn’t catch him. That was last year before he went into Sister Goretti’s class.
But the smell in Sister Ignatius’ class was something he had never smelled before. It wasn’t a bad smell but it wasn’t a nice smell either. What was it? Was it like any other? He sniffed and tried to think of all the smells he knew; dirty smells, sweet smells, the smell of something nice cooking, burning smells, cleaning smells, the smell of the dustbin when it was full. This was not like any of them. He didn’t know if he was supposed to like it or not. He looked at Sister Ignatius. Her head was down, reading the message, so the veil hid her face. She was just a black shape. The smell wasn’t coming from her. Nuns never had a smell. Did no one else notice it? Francis looked at the big girls. So many of them sitting all together like this looked very strange. The boys hardly ever saw the big girls. They had their sos at a different time and they finished school half an hour after him. In this little room they looked all crushed together, loads of hair, red and brown and black and then the blue of their uniform. He couldn’t see any faces because they all had their heads down in case Sister Ignatius gave out to them. They were writing or maybe just pretending to write. Loads of right hands scratching like a giant funny hairy blue machine. Underneath the desks looked even more strange. There were huge bare knees, some were stuck together, some were apart with skirts falling between them. One hand kept scratching a knee. Another hand was fidgeting inside a skirt. Some feet were sticking out, some were tucked in with ankles crossed. It was like when his dad took him hunting for periwinkles on the rocks in Ballybunion and Francis saw a world of crawly things hidden in the pools, floating and wriggling and clinging.
‘Are you looking for your sister?’
Sister Ignatius’ voice gave Francis a scare. She was folding the paper up much more carefully than Sister Goretti had done and speaking at the same time.
‘Marian Strong, seas suas.’
Marian stood up. Francis saw her face go pure red.
‘There she is and I hope when you are twelve you’ll be as good a pupil as she is. Suigh síos a Mharian.’
Marian sat and hid her face behind the girls in front of her. Francis noticed that Sister Ignatius’ voice seemed a bit softer as she handed him the message.
‘Now bring that very important message straight back to Sister Goretti, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘Maith an buachaill.’
Sister Ignatius wasn’t as nice as Sister Goretti but she wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. As soon as Francis closed the door of the classroom he noticed that the strange smell was gone. Along the big girls corridor, down the stairs and all the slow way back to his classroom he sniffed, but the only smell now was the smell of wax that the nuns used everywhere. He breathed it in easily. Francis liked walking along the corridor like this carrying the message safely for Sister Goretti. He loved school. He wanted to ask about the smell in the big girls class but, though he didn’t exactly understand why, he knew he wouldn’t.
*
SHANNON VIEW
GUINEY DEVELOPMENTS
Phase One
As he drove onto the site Fonsie thought he had never seen anything like it around the city. The last time he’d been out this way it was all fields. He had a coal customer, poor old Martin Fitzgerald, who died towards the end of last year. Fonsie guessed that his farm was probably part of the site. The land had been cleared in every direction and foundations were already in at this end. Where had his old cottage been? The landscape had already changed so much it was impossible for Fonsie to figure it out. There were men at work everywhere he looked. Wasn’t that a great thing? Badly needed. He even recognised the odd face and saluted them as he drove along the makeshift road to the site office. A youngfellah in a suit gave him his docket but when Fonsie asked him where the cement should go, he looked at him as if he had two heads. Fonsie explained.
‘I haven’t delivered here before.’
‘Well, I don’t know. Ask the foreman.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Ah… can’t think of his name. Big fellah. Don’t worry, you can’t miss him.’
Fonsie walked around in search of the foreman. One of the labourers told him his name was Gerry O’Grady and, funnily enough, he also said that Fonsie couldn’t miss him. In the end Gerry O’Grady found Fonsie before F
onsie found him. At least he assumed that’s who was roaring at him. The man never introduced himself.
‘Hey! Is that your lorry up there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what’s it doing there? It’s not going to unload itself.’
‘I was looking to find out where to unload it.’
‘Really, and why didn’t you ask instead of wandering around the site like a spa?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Look, the cement doesn’t get delivered, the concrete doesn’t get made. The concrete doesn’t get made, the foundations don’t go in, and so on. You see what I’m getting at, Sham? Sinking in slowly, is it? I’ve fellahs sitting around pulling their wires ’cause they’re waiting for O’Neill’s to deliver.’
‘I see what you’re saying. So where do I unload?’
‘Not up there.’
‘All right but –’
‘Well, get on with it so.’
Fonsie looked around nervously, not sure what to do or say. He didn’t move quickly enough for Gerry O’Grady.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, do you think this is all I have to do all day? Hold your hand and show you how to do your job?’
‘No, but if you can tell me –’
‘Look around you. Open your eyes. Do you see any cement mixers? Do you see bags of cement near them cement mixers?’
‘Right. I have you.’
‘Well, get on with it so. And I tell you, the next time I’m on to Josie Hoare I’ll be asking him to send someone with a whole brain to do the delivery.’
Fonsie went back to the lorry feeling a bit shook. He didn’t know why men like Gerry O’Grady felt they had to act the bully-boy all the time. There would always be people like that, he supposed. He reversed back down the track to where two large cement mixers were in operation. Four men were shovelling, two more went back and forth with buckets of water and four others wheeled barrowloads of wet cement away. One man seemed to be supervising. Fonsie pulled in.
‘Is it all right to unload here?’
‘I couldn’t care less where you unload.’
‘Is this the right place?’
‘Is this where you were told to go?’
Fonsie knew every question asked would only get another question back so there was no point in asking any more. Also he was aware that Mr Hoare had told him to be back by twelve to load up again. It had seemed like plenty of time but now, with all this messing, he was going to be late. He started to unload quickly, noticing how much easier it was to handle bags of cement compared to bags of coal. A hundredweight of cement seemed less bulky, much softer against his back and of course cleaner in its sealed bag. This part of the job would be very handy compared to what he was used to. He wasn’t too surprised that the smart-alec supervisor just stood looking at him as he humped bag after bag, but when the other lads stopped what they were doing while they waited for a mix to be ready he sort of thought that some of them might offer to lend a hand, just to speed things up. But no one lifted a finger.
*
Francis wished it was Gussie taking him to the pictures. At least he’d talk to him, telling him all sorts of things about Hollywood and film stars. Martin just stared out the bus window saying nothing. When the bus stopped outside Powers small profit store, Martin got up and said, ‘Come on.’ Francis had to run after him to keep up. It was raining. By the time they got to the Lyric they’d be soaked. He followed Martin down Wickham Street, then down Roches Street, then up Catherine Street, then Francis was surprised when Martin turned at the next corner. This wasn’t the right way. Mary Poppins was on in the Lyric. The Lyric was across the road from the Dominicans’ Church. Martin was still walking fast. Francis stopped and shouted after him. Martin turned and said, ‘Come on,’ again. Francis told him it wasn’t the right way. Martin walked back to him.
‘We’re not going to Mary Poppins, we’re going to a different picture and you’d better not tell Mam. Come on.’
He grabbed Francis’ hand and pulled him along. Francis nearly started crying but he knew if he did that it would only put Martin in a worse temper and he mightn’t take him to the pictures at all. He could see a bright red sign that said ‘Royal’. Now he could see the names of the pictures.
DOUBLE BILL
THE FACE OF FU MANCHU
DRACULA
They ran in out of the rain and Martin dragged him over to where the posters for the films were in a glass case. ‘Wait here.’ Francis watched Martin go to a fat woman with blonde hair who was sitting behind glass reading a magazine. There was a little hole in the glass. She didn’t look at Martin when he pushed in the half crown Francis had seen his mam give him at dinner-time. The fat woman handed back a ticket and some money. She still didn’t look at Martin. He came back and pointed at the posters.
‘Stay here. Look at those. I won’t be a sec.’
Then he went through a swinging door. There was no one else around except the fat woman reading the magazine. The rain was pouring down now. The man on the poster looked like he was staring down at Francis. He was a Chinaman with a big funny-shaped hat holding a huge pointy knife over his head. His eyes were red and his moustache was hanging down like two rat’s tails. There were words all around him.
Obey Fu Manchu … or every living thing shall die!
The exclamation mark was huge. Underneath, Francis saw another exclamation mark after more words but it was smaller.
The face of Fu Manchu
The most evil man the world has ever known!
He looked evil. All over the poster there were drawings of girls tied up and girls being attacked by Chinamen with pointy knives. The other poster had a picture of a man’s face as well. He had big staring eyes and he was showing his teeth like a growling dog. There was shiny red blood coming out of his mouth. A girl, much smaller, like a doll, was holding her hands up and screaming. Francis read the words in big red letters.
Christopher Lee is
Dracula.
Francis noticed something. Christopher Lee. The name was on the other poster as well. Christopher Lee as Fu Manchu. Christopher Lee is Dracula. Francis looked from one face to the other. Was the man with the dog’s teeth and the one with the rat’s tails the same person?
‘So is this the baby brother, yeah?’
‘Are you coming to see Dracula, Squirt?’
Martin was back with two other big boys. They looked even older than him. One had a long skinny face and was smoking a cigarette, the other had a head like an orange. Francis didn’t know who they were. They didn’t live on Rowan Avenue.
‘It’s very sca-a-ary.’
‘You’ll wet your pants.’
Martin grabbed him by the shoulders.
‘Now you promise you won’t tell Mam? Promise.’
‘I promise.’
‘You’re to hide behind us when we go in. If they catch you they’ll throw you out because you’re too young.’
Francis wondered who ‘they’ were. He was just going to ask when Martin said, ‘And keep your mouth shut for once.’
‘How much have you, Macker?’
Francis wondered why Orange Head was calling Martin ‘Macker’.
‘A shilling.’
‘What are you getting us?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want an ice-pop.’
‘Yeah, me too. We’ll sneak him in when her back is turned.’
Martin went up to the fat woman behind the glass.
‘Hey Missis, four ice-pops.’
The fat woman looked up from her magazine. She made a face for some reason, then wriggled off her high stool. When she had her head down in the ice-pop fridge the boy with the long face pushed Francis through the swinging door. On the other side there was a long narrow empty corridor. They all waited for Martin. Francis wished he would hurry. He didn’t like these big boys who were laughing and whispering things he couldn’t hear properly. Martin came in with the ice-pops. He gave them one each. When he gave Francis his,
he pointed to a door at the end of the corridor.
‘When we go in there, right, stick behind me and don’t let the fellah with the flashlamp see you. OK?’
‘Who’s the fellah with the flashlamp?’
‘Look, just shut up and do what I tell you.’
Orange Head went first and pushed open the door. Francis grabbed the back of Martin’s jumper and followed him in. Long Face walked behind with a hand on Francis’ shoulder. His cigarette was in the same hand and the smoke curled up into Francis’ nose. It was dark on the other side of the door. Francis heard loud music and voices. He knew it must be the picture but he was afraid to look and kept his face pressed against Martin’s back. His ear felt the heat of the cigarette. He heard Martin talking to a man. Was this the fellah with the flashlamp?
‘We were in already.’
‘Yeah well, they’ll be no more goin’ in an’ out, do you hear me? Or out you go for good. No more messin’. You shouldn’t even be let in to this picture at your age.’
Then they started walking. Francis hung onto Martin’s jumper. Long Face behind kept pushing him forward, the smoke from the cigarette still going up his nose. On one side Francis could see people sitting in seats staring up at the picture. When they stopped walking Francis was very glad that Long Face took his hand away because he was afraid that the cigarette smoke was going to make him sneeze. Then he saw light from a flashlamp shining on a row of seats.
‘Go on, get in there and not another squeak out of you, do you hear me? And you shouldn’t be smoking at your age.’
Martin and Orange Head stayed where they were, whispering to the man with the flashlight. Long Face suddenly pushed Francis past them to the seats.
‘Sorry sir, we won’t go out again.’
‘I know you won’t. Go on. Shift.’
‘Have we missed much of the picture, sir?’
‘Get in there and shut up, don’t be annoying me.’
There was only one man sitting in the row. He stood up to let them pass but he never took his eyes off the picture. Long Face pushed Francis on to his knees.
Unspoken Page 16
