Leaving Ardglass

by William King

  ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

  ‘The lads here have no time for fellas on the dole. They’re strange that way.’ He settles the paper again. ‘No. I got a county council scholarship, but the grant only covers the essentials.’

  He doesn’t want to be empty-handed with well-off farmers’ sons from Meath and Kildare when they are having pints in Hartigans or O’Dwyer’s in Leeson Street, and going on about their fathers’ prize cattle and hunters. We sit up and he throws a crust of bread to the crows. ‘Another year and I’m home and dry. A brass plate on my door on the Athlone Road. As good as the best of them.’

  Across the road a team of men are digging trenches for sewerage and services; others are spreading gravel on a rough path to the site – a wide expanse of land stretching as far as a cluster of houses with brown roofs. Beyond them the bell tower of a Protestant church.

  Deano studies the trenchers. Along a line marked out by a cord, they are thrusting the spades into the earth, stepping on the lugs to drive them deeper and lifting out a neat sod, grassy on top. Like a colony of giant moles, they bob up and down, bare backs glistening in the sun.

  ‘Slavery,’ Deano says after some time. ‘Some of these lads will spend their lives digging and drinking. Digging and drinking, and finish up in the doss-house. Poor bastards ending their days with winos and lunatics.’ With a look of contempt on his face, he turns away. ‘There’ll be a quare few bob made out of dead men over there.’

  ‘Dead men. Come again?’

  His upturned shirt collar, Elvis-style, is frayed beneath the fold. ‘All the subbies do it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The big shots sub-contract, say forty men to do the footing.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘The subbie will hire thirty-five and put five men’s wages in his pocket. They don’t exist. That’s why they’re called dead men. Three or four pounds a day for each dead man. That’s a tidy sum at the end of the week. Thirty-five will do the work of forty. You got a sample of the cable-laying out at Stevenage. What else do you think all the chalk marking is about and the roaring from Horse Muldoon and Kilrush?’ He glances at me. ‘You’re surprised, well, don’t be. It’s been the same since time began. That’s the way it has been and the way it’ll always be.’ He settles back and makes a tent out of the newspaper. ‘You know the road we drive up every evening in the wagons; where we drop off the lads at the Crown?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It goes through Kilburn and Cricklewood and then north through Stratford and ends up – guess where? Holyhead. Built by the Romans about two thousand years ago. The very same road that our crowd took. Digging and slavery don’t change a whole lot in two thousand years. Some make it in this life, Tommy, and some don’t. And there’s no more to be said about it, except to make sure you’re not with the galley slaves.’

  The whistle blows and the men pour out of the hut, still arguing about a hand of cards – ‘and you shouldn’t have played the joker so soon, you fucker’. One of them makes a playful swipe at his cards partner, and for a moment they act the part of two boxers circling and dodging and poking the air, their boots scuffing against the loose gravel. ‘I’m a pure Cassius Clay,’ says one of the men, dancing and ducking to avoid his opponent. But then, as quickly as they have begun, they burst into false laughter, their arms dropping to their sides, both knowing that a stray punch could rouse a sleeping giant. For always beneath the banter is touchpaper that could suddenly explode into flames. Like the day Sputnik, out of devilment, squeezes the spout of the hose to increase its force, and tries to shower those of us sitting on planks for the morning break.

  ‘Better than any bath,’ he cackles. ‘You lads are smelly anyway.’ Except for Leitrim Joe, who is about to bite into two wedges of bread with strips of bacon between them, we all jump to safety. Water dripping from his face and peaked cap, Leitrim throws aside the sandwich and lunges at Sputnik, his fist crashing into his face.

  Covered in dust and lime, they roll and kick on the ground close to the mixer, which is still running. ‘Ah, come on, lads. Come on, Joe,’ twas only a bit of oul fun. An’ oul joke.’ Garryowen rushes in, but fails to pull them apart. Blood is pouring from Sputnik’s nose. An English lorry driver delivering timber to the site calls from the cab to his mate who is clearing the passageway of planks. ‘Harry ’ere, over ’ere. See the Paddys are killing each other again.’ Chortling, they watch until the fight ends.

  Now Kilrush is blowing the whistle and banging on the door of the hut: ‘Come out, ye fuckers. Is it for playing cards ye came here?’

  When Deano yanks the starting handle, the mixer shudders into life, at first, belching out quick blasts of smoke and then moving into a steady rhythm. The bricklayers remove their trowels, clean as surgeons’ knives, from a bucket of water, and climb the ladders. I split a bag of cement in two and stand well back while a cloud of grey dust rises.

  The routine is second nature: I stretch and thrust the shovel into the sand and feed the mixer while Sputnik turns on the hose and directs the flow into the revolving drum. Then I heave the cement into the open mouth and watch the wet concrete slosh around until it is ready; together we tilt the drum and fill the hod for Deano to hoist onto his shoulder and climb the ladder.

  On the scaffold the bricklayers tap the solid bricks with the handles of their trowels; now and again, they hold a spirit level up against the rising wall and run the trowel along the side to clean off any excess plaster. Their conversation carries in the clear air: ‘Who’s this Elvis Preston fella anyway?’ one of them asks.

  ‘Say that again.’

  The man hesitates, aware now that they have stopped and are watching him. ‘Elvis Preston.’

  A loud burst of laughter follows. ‘What friggin’ mountain are you from?’

  ‘A friggin’ mountain the same as you’re from.’

  Discovering his mistake, a slow smile appears on his face, and he laughs with them. They resume their tapping.

  As if our conversation about scams and dead men is still kindling in his brain, Deano speaks in a low voice while Sputnik is relieving himself at the back of the hut. ‘I did a rough calculation,’ he says. ‘A subbie can make a hundred and fifty a week out of dead men. About the same as Woulfe the doctor in Granard makes in a month.’

  He doesn’t need to spell it out. M.J. had taken the same route to reach the top of the pile: money that went to the new house at Ardglass, the Ford Prefect, and to keep me in a college with merchants’ and doctors’ sons.

  ‘Most of the lads have no books or stamps or a pension. Buckshee they call it. But I shouldn’t complain; it has paid for my pints at Hartigans.’ Lifting the full hod on his shoulder, he throws me a James Dean smirk: ‘And remember Charles Darwin, Tommy boy: the fiercest ape is king.’

  Anger and confusion at M.J. and what he is doing keep me away from Chiswick that weekend; and also some guilt that I am heir to his dishonesty. Over the pub phone he says something about going for a drive down to Maidstone on the Sunday with Bonnie and himself, but I can’t make it out with the din all around me.

  ‘I’m playing football at New Eltham, so it’ll be easier to stay at The Halfway,’ I tell him. ‘See you next week.’

  9

  ON THAT SUNDAY MORNING during the twelve o’clock Mass at Quex Road, I sit on the low wall across from the church. Dead men, Darwin and Deano’s Roman Road, and the clever ones making money out of the slaves are becoming a mishmash in my head. Over the granite arch of the front door is a megaphone broadcasting the Mass to those who can’t get room in the church, or, who, like myself, stay outside and fill the yard. The road is mobbed. Some have lingered after the previous Mass to meet friends, others because they have nothing else to do. Now they stand in groups, or flock around the stalls that sell the Irish newspapers. Light-hearted boys are pushing at the back, others are reaching over shoulders, clutching a shilling or a half-crown. Girls scream in a flirty way. Inside the stalls, men with Pioneer pins
are handing out The Cork Examiner, the Sligo Champion, and The Kerryman; they drop coins and notes into shoeboxes behind them.

  The overhanging beech trees are casting random shadows on the green canvas of the stalls. While the priest intones the Latin prayers, a youth with a shock of wavy hair falling over his forehead is playing with a girl’s ponytail and slipping his arm around her waist. A hush descends on the crowd while the notices are being read: marriage banns – anyone with objections should inform the parish priest. Deaths, and set-dancing competitions at The Banba. A Legion of Mary outing to South-end-on-Sea – if you need a ticket for the bus, you should call to the sacristy. And Father John Harty will be in the office at the back to see anyone who needs work or a place to stay. A whiff of cigarette smoke or waves of perfume carry in the warm breeze. On the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, says the voice-over, a procession will begin at the church after the last Mass.

  As the crowd parts for a couple of cars going towards Kilburn High Road, I catch sight of Deano surrounded by a group of girls. He has on a herringbone jacket and flannel trousers – inside his open-necked shirt he wears a maroon cravat. He waves and comes across: ‘Best place in London to pick up a woman. You see the bit of goods in the dark slacks?’ I search the giddy swarm and find a blonde woman whose red lipstick sets off her full mouth.

  ‘Isn’t she a pure Kim Novak? I’m fixed up for tonight at the Galtymore.’ He rubs his hands. ‘Why don’t you come, Tommy? Butch Moore and The Capital Showband are over.’

  The megaphone crackles, and the clear fresh voices of a children’s choir float over the noisy crowd:

  I’ll sing a hymn to Mary, the mother of my God,

  The virgin of all virgins, of David’s royal blood.

  O teach me, holy Mary, a loving song to frame,

  When wicked men blaspheme thee, to love and bless thy name.

  Near one of the stalls a girl’s teasing laugh – like a mating call – soars above the sunny conversations, the pushing, the good-humoured shoving, and the grabbing of newspapers.

  ‘I will. I’ll go, yeah, sure.’ And I silence the confessional advice in the college chapel: ‘Stay away from dances and company-keeping if the priesthood is on your mind. You’ll only make it more difficult for yourself.’

  That evening, as soon as I turn a corner and see a crowd already gathered outside the dance hall, I have to hold back from running up Cricklewood Broadway to join them; many of the Quex Road faces are there. They form a medley of restless colours: white shirts and tiepins and the whiff of excitement. Women in high heels, flared dresses, yellow, blue and green, and mother-of-pearl necklaces with matching earrings. And whenever the red doors open, the thrill of the dance floor spills on to the street. Deano and Kim Novak emerge out of the sea of faces. His arm is around her neck.

  We have to jostle our way through the breezy swarm at the ticket office: a hole in the wall big enough to show a glistening head framed in the light of a naked bulb; behind the head, conversation and the clink of coins. I insert my five shillings through the hole and clutch the ticket that is thrust into my hand.

  Two men, arm muscles straining their dress suits, stand in the foyer: they tower over the laughing stream hurrying to get into the hall. ‘Aisy there now, lads. Plenty for everyone,’ they joke as they take our tickets.

  ‘I wouldn’t tangle with one of them fellas in a hurry,’ Deano says. ‘Not unless I wanted to end up in hospital. They’re wrestlers.’

  Suddenly we are standing at the open door to pure pleasure. The revolving crystal bowl sprays the dancers with specks of light which cause the women’s jewellery and spangled dresses to glitter. Swags of red, blue and yellow bulbs along the side walls cast a soft glow around the hall. Behind the stage, little lights like stars shine out against a navy backdrop; the lead singer, Butch Moore, is fondling a microphone while he sings:

  Sugar in the mornin’, sugar in the evenin’,

  Sugar at supper time;

  Be my little sugar, and love me all the time.

  Like him, all the members of the band are dressed in royal blue blazers with gold buttons and beige trousers; in a line, they move forwards and backwards in time to the music: one step out, one step back, one step out, one step back. Trumpets, trombones and saxophones are glinting in the movement. The floor heaves to the rhythm of the dance; the light changes: now orange, now a shade of red, now indigo. Girls are throwing back their heads and laughing. This is heaven. ‘Butch Moore,’ says Deano, who has to shout into my ear. ‘Lucky bastard, he has all the girls mad after him. Look. And the same back at home.’ Along the front of the stage women are reaching out, waving with handkerchiefs, and calling the singer, who smiles down at them and continues to fondle the microphone:

  Put your arms around me and swear by the stars above,

  You’ll be mine forever in a heaven of love;

  Sugar in the mornin’.…

  ‘Terrific song for jiving,’ says Deano, leading his girl out on to the floor. He turns back. ‘Don’t waste any time. Life is short. Get yourself a wench, Galvin.’

  At one side of the hall women are standing, some with their arms lightly on each other’s shoulders, handkerchiefs tucked inside the strap of their wristwatches. Across the dance floor are rows of men, whom I had seen playing football at New Eltham or hopping off lorries in the evening, covered in dust and lime. Now they are clean-shaven, and wear sports coats or shiny suits with narrow-legged trousers.

  When a waltz comes round, I pluck up courage and ask out a girl who has a Tara brooch on her green dress. ‘I’m Maureen,’ she says. ‘From Claremorris.’

  She’s chatty. No one left now in Claremorris. She had come to an aunt in Ealing, but is headed for New York, where the Irish count for something. Who do I work for?

  ‘A builder. M.J. Galvin.’

  ‘You don’t look like a navvy to me. And you don’t have the maulers of a builder, so pull the other one.’ She smiles easily.

  ‘Only here for the summer.’

  ‘A student. I thought so.’ The previous summer she had gone out with a student who worked for Grey Murphy, one of the biggest of the Irish builders. The student never stopped complaining about someone called Elephant Jim.

  ‘John.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Elephant John, a hiring-foreman for Murphy.’ Wholesome scent of her body when I shout into her ear: ‘John.’ She still can’t hear me. Who cares? I’m holding the prettiest girl in the dance hall.

  We have lemonade and biscuits and stand on the balcony looking down at the swaying couples as they circle the floor. Like snowflakes, the specks from the crystal bowl caress their smiles.

  ‘Paying your way through college, is that it?’ Strands of her hair brush against my lips.

  ‘Something like that.’ I venture to put an arm around her.

  ‘I like that in a fella.’

  Deano passes by, holding hands with Kim Novak. He whispers in my ear: ‘You boyo, Tommy. She’s a bit of all right.’

  I dance again with Maureen; this time it’s a slow waltz. Like the other couples, we are barely moving; she rests her head on my shoulder. The overhead lights are dimmed, so that the little stars behind the stage shine out bravely. Butch Moore is smiling, and swaying, while he sings:

  Just you know why, why you and I will, by and by,

  Know true love ways.

  Sometimes we’ll sigh, sometimes we’ll cry and we’ll know why,

  Just you and I, know true love ways.

  ‘It’s a change to meet someone who isn’t blind drunk or has his paws all over you.’ She looks up, and I feel the pressure of her warm body.

  ‘You don’t think I’d be like that.’ I give her a sidelong glance.

  ‘Not half. Students are the worst of all.’

  The set is coming to an end. Butch Moore is wiping his forehead, and laughing as he returns a handkerchief to one of the excited women. I hold on to Maureen’s hand, and rush out with: ‘Later, before it’s
over, will we dance again? Just one more.’

  ‘Down, boy, down. I’m not going anywhere.’ She saunters away, turns and then winks. I dance with others but keep an eye out for her, even when I am talking to Deano and his girl. Maureen is asked out for every set by fellows I’d come across over the weeks. One of them has such a firm grip around her waist, a length of lacy slip shows below the green dress. Near the end of the night we dance again. Time is running out. ‘Would you… I mean.’

  She looks up smiling, while I struggle: ‘Lemonade? They sell ice-cream here too.’

  ‘More lemonade? No. But I’ll go out with you, if that’s what you’re up to.’ She waits for an answer.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m up to.’

  ‘You’re not going to try anything … students can’t be trusted. Take advantage of a poor little girl from Mayo now, are you?’ She gives me a dig in the side.

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘Right. Mind this while I get my cardigan.’ She puts a small purse into my hand.

  The wrestlers in monkey suits are now relaxed and moving through the shrinking crowd. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ they say to couples who are making for the front door. But I’m interested only in Maureen from Claremorris, and keep my eyes fixed on the door of the ladies’ cloakroom.

  The night is soft and warm when we step out. A weedy little man with a stained shirt open down the front is staggering all over the footpath and offering to fight any man in London. ‘I’d fight fucken Jack Doyle this minute.’ He tries a Doyle impression. With a notional woman in his arms, and swaying to the movements of a waltz, he bursts into the boxer’s song: ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’. Then he pokes the air with drunken jabs and uppercuts. ‘I’d down The Gorgeous fucken Gael this minute,’ he shouts. Chatting groups laugh and step out of his way.