Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom?

by Jessica Stirling

  Milly had no notion what the bull or the horse was thinking when the shutter clicked but she certainly knew how the girls felt. She’d been in front of Mr Coghlan’s camera more than once and especially last September, when Mummy and Hugh Boylan had come down to visit the morning after Mr Boylan’s concert party had performed in the Father Mathew Hall up the road in Athlone.

  Mr Boylan had been very impressed by Mr Coghlan’s work. He was on the verge of commissioning Mr Coghlan to ‘do’ her, Milly, as Titania or, better yet, Queen Mab, when Mummy had jumped in to remind Blazes that she was no longer his silly Milly but a grown woman and if he wanted a likeness it had better not be too revealing.

  Consequently, she’d put on her tam, her short red jacket and long scarf and had gone outside into the autumn sunlight and posed before Mr Owen’s cycle shop and Mr Coghlan had done a lovely composition with her seated astride a man’s two-wheeler.

  Hugh Boylan had said he would pay for three prints to be sent to his Dublin office and present one each to Papli and Mummy but Mummy had said, no, two would be enough, no point in wasting money. Mr Boylan had laughed and said ‘Game ball, Molly,’ whatever that meant, and had promised he would drop by the shop next time he was down in Westmeath, which would be in April for the Kilbeggan Handicap Cup in which he hoped to have a horse – half a horse, he said – running.

  She’d seen Hugh Boylan once since then, up in Dublin in December. Mummy had been singing ‘There is a Flower that Bloometh’, from Maritana, at the Traders’ Association Christmas concert in the Belleville Halls. Half way through the song Papli, for no reason, had burst into tears. On the steps outside, after the show, Mr Boylan had patted Papli on the shoulder and had said something that had caused her father to leave hurriedly without waiting for Mummy or her.

  She might have paid more attention to what was going on between Blazes and her father – who had never liked each other anyway – but she was still seething about the thing that had happened two nights before when her beau of the past year, Alec Bannon, and his so-called bon ami, Buck Mulligan, both drunk as lords, had tried to take liberties with her in a cab after a party at Kitty Loughlin’s house, a party she shouldn’t have gone to in the first place.

  Mulligan had held her against the leather with his forearm while Alec had put his hand up her skirts and touched the front of her bottom and had said now was the time to see if she really had hair on it, saying, ‘Stop bloody wriggling, Milly, and open your legs.’ He would have stuck his finger inside her, too, if she hadn’t screamed at the top of her voice and the jarvey hadn’t stopped the cab, leaned down and asked if everything was all right down there. Mulligan, coarse brute though he was, had pulled Alec off and bundled him out of the cab and had paid the cabman to take her home, while Alec had staggered about on the pavement and called her filthy names, still shouting filthy names even as the cab had rolled off.

  She’d been very upset by Alec’s lewd behaviour and had longed to tell Mummy what had happened and ask her advice on what to do if he tried the same thing again. On arriving home, though, she’d walked in on one of her parents’ rows. It took Papli all his time to open the front door and – shirt hanging outside his trousers – shuffle back along the hall into the bedroom and slam the door while she stood, trembling, in the hall.

  When Pussens had crept upstairs to see what the fuss was about she’d carried the cat into her room and had told her all her troubles while the voices across the hall rose and fell, criss-crossing each other endlessly. Eventually, long after midnight, her father had blundered out of the bedroom and had gone downstairs into the kitchen to rattle pots and pans and, she imagined, console himself with toast and cocoa.

  In the morning nothing had been said. When Papli had brought her tea in bed and had asked if she’d had a grand time at the party she’d said it had been fine, very nice, and had managed a smile, though he’d been on the way out of the door by then and hadn’t even noticed.

  It had been a relief to return to Mullingar, back to serving customers and filling in the negative book, which took great concentration, and be instructed in the mysteries of the camera and shown how to calculate exposure times.

  She’d heard not a word from Alec Bannon, though he had family in Mullingar, out beyond the tennis ground, and when she’d bumped into his snooty cousin, Gladys, she was given the coldest of shoulders. She honestly didn’t care if she never saw Alec Bannon again. She was too busy learning a profession and enjoying what the town had to offer and, now she was approaching sixteen, flirting freely with the boys in the cycle shop and giving sauce to Mr Coghlan who, within reason, didn’t seem to mind. He called her an imp or his little minx, and upped her salary to twelve shillings and sixpence a week with three shillings deducted for board; and very good board it was, for Mrs C was a better cook than Mummy.

  She continued to write to Papli but her heart was no longer in it. Papli said he might visit at Easter, if, that is, she couldn’t persuade Mr Coghlan to give her time off to come home.

  How could she tell her father, never mind her mother, that she didn’t particularly want to come home? She’d written to Papli to explain that Easter in Mullingar was a favourite time for weddings and that Mr Coghlan, with the best will in the world, wouldn’t be able to spare her even for a few days. She’d almost added that she was looking forward to seeing Mr Boylan again, if he did manage down for the Handicap Cup but, pondering, thought better of it and signed off with a kiss instead.

  Shortly before noon on that March morning, five weeks before Easter, she was out in the front shop with a felt mat spread on the counter and a chamois leather, fresh from the bottle, in her hand. Polishing soft optical glass required care and she was flattered that Mr Coghlan had entrusted her with the delicate task. She had dusted the lenses with a camel-hair brush and was just about to finish off with a loosely rolled corner of the chamois when the bell above the shop door tinkled and two men entered from the street.

  One was Constable Harris of the Royal Irish Constabulary, broad shoulders blotting out the light. The other was Reverend Stephens, uncollared, unhatted and unusually harassed. He came forward to the counter and, to her surprise, sought her hand.

  ‘Milly,’ he said in a sombre voice, ‘is Mrs Coghlan at home?’

  ‘I believe she’s upstairs,’ Milly answered.

  ‘And Harry … Mr Coghlan?’

  Milly gestured to the door of the studio behind her.

  ‘Best fetch him,’ Reverend Stephens said, ‘and the woman too.’

  Constable Harris nodded. Lifting the counter gate, he let himself into the rear of the shop, knocked on the door of the studio and, without awaiting an invitation, opened it and went inside.

  ‘What is it?’ Milly got out. ‘Is Mr Coghlan in trouble?’

  ‘Milly, oh Milly.’ Stretching over the counter, Reverend Stephens looped an arm about her. ‘It’s news, sad news from Dublin we’ve just received. I’m sorry to have to tell you your mother has passed away.’

  ‘Passed away?’

  ‘Dead,’ said the Reverend Stephens. ‘I’m afraid she’s dead.’

  The display photographs of brides, grooms and family groups danced and shimmered. Mirrored panels reflected splinters of light with piercing clarity, then everything began to swirl like an eddy in a stream and, still swirling, to blur and fade, then, for the first time in her life, little Milly Bloom fainted dead away.

  Kinsella crossed the canal bridge and approached the façade of Broadstone station that stood out severe and imposing against the skyline. He stopped at a stall in one of the porticos, purchased a cup of coffee and paused to take in the view over the King’s Inns and the dome of the Four Courts before fishing out his Memo Book and making note of his progress so far.

  Paperwork was the bane of all departments in the DMP and Kinsella was mindful that his every action had to be accounted for at the day’s end. He put the book away, swallowed the coffee, took three puffs on a cigarette then, duly fortified, set off round th
e back of the railway station in search of the lane that led down to Union Court.

  There were much worse slums in Dublin, some close to where he lived in the old town. In his days as a patrol man Jim Kinsella had visited most of them. The Union Court tenements had originally been thrown up to accommodate extra hands in the engineering shops and coal yards of the Midland & Great Western, good solid dwellings for honest artisans that, like the artisans themselves, had fallen foul of progress and hard times.

  Soot blackened the stonework and unrepaired eaves formed great green patches that made the buildings seem forbidding even in broad daylight. Several small children who were playing about the mouth of the stairwell stopped what they were doing and gawked at him and an old woman, dozing on a chair by a ground floor window, opened one eye and deliberately dropped a globule of spit in his wake as he went past.

  An odorous staircase led to the second-floor landing where, drawing in a breath, he knocked on the peeling woodwork. If Mrs Fleming had found another post she probably wouldn’t be at home. He was prepared to be disappointed but, no, the door opened, and a small, stoop-shouldered woman peered up at him out of the gloom. ‘Are you the copper was asking about me?’ she said.

  ‘Indirectly,’ Kinsella said, ‘I am.’

  ‘I tell you now we ha’na seen Eric in weeks.’

  ‘I’m not here about Eric,’ Kinsella said, then, ‘Is he your son?’

  ‘No son o’ mine,’ came a gruff voice from within. ‘Lodger. Bastard hawked me only decent pair o’ boots. Kill him I will he shows his face here again. Is it you the fella’s after, Lizzie? What mischief have you been up to now?’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ the woman said ruefully and ushered Kinsella into the kitchen.

  One room, cramped but clean: two beds, one tight to the gable wall, the other in a shallow alcove, a table, two wooden chairs, a stool and an armchair of sorts, very worn. The window was screened by a torn blind the colour of tobacco leaf. Under it was a wash-stand with a basin and jug and a small pile of dishes. On a grid over the fire a kettle steamed, the coals beneath it providing the room’s only spot of colour.

  Dressed in an undershirt and a pair of moleskin trousers, a man crouched on the bed by the gable, legs tucked under him in the pose of an Indian Swami. He appeared to be about sixty, though a stubble beard and locks of dirty grey hair made it difficult to judge his age. Kinsella introduced himself.

  ‘I knew you was a G-man,’ the man said. ‘You’ve got that smell about you. One o’ the Castle crowd, are ye? One o’ the Lord Lieutenant’s anointed?’

  ‘Stop it, Mickey,’ the woman said, then, to Kinsella, ‘He doesn’t mean to give offence. His legs’s bad this morning.’

  ‘What’s wrong with his legs?’

  ‘Dead as mutton since me back got broke,’ Mickey Fleming answered. ‘Seven years near enough to the day since the load fell on me. We were puttin’ in the tanks on Goulding’s ground near the East Wall. Cracked me spine in two places. Lucky to be alive, they told me. Hah! Lucky, is it?’

  Lizzie Fleming hurried to pull out a wooden chair and watched, frowning anxiously, as Jim Kinsella seated himself upon it.

  ‘The gentleman isn’t here to listen to your woes, Mickey,’ she said. ‘What is it we can do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘I believe you were servant to the Blooms of Eccles Street, Mrs Fleming,’ Kinsella began.

  ‘Kicked her out, that cow.’

  ‘Mickey, hold your rattle,’ Lizzie Fleming said sternly, then, ‘Yes, I was day maid to Mrs Bloom for near a year.’

  ‘When did she let you go?’

  ‘Friday before last Christmas,’ the woman said. ‘Why are you asking about the Blooms?’

  Kinsella hesitated. ‘Mrs Bloom was found dead this morning.’

  Silence for a few seconds then a whistle from Mr Fleming. ‘So he done for her at last. Can’t say I’m surprised. Got what was coming to her, I reckon.’

  ‘What makes you suppose Mrs Bloom didn’t die of natural causes?’ Jim Kinsella asked.

  ‘You wouldn’t be here if she had,’ Mr Fleming answered. ‘You don’t rout out a G-man for natural causes. Foul play was involved, right? And that means old Bloom done her in.’

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ Mrs Fleming said. ‘Mr Bloom wouldn’t harm a fly. We used to have breakfast at the kitchen table when he wasn’t in a hurry out.’

  ‘While Madam lounged in bed like a bloody trollop.’

  ‘Some days she didn’t feel well.’

  ‘She was always well enough to open her legs for him.’

  ‘Him?’ Kinsella spoke without inflexion.

  ‘Boylan, Blazes Boylan,’ Mr Fleming said. ‘That fancy dan, that two-faced jackanapes. It was him got Madam Bloom to sack my missus.’

  ‘You can’t be sure o’ that,’ Mrs Fleming said.

  ‘After you walked in on them, the jig was up,’ said Mickey.

  ‘What reason did Mrs Bloom give for releasing you?’

  ‘She said I was too old to do the work properly.’

  ‘Too old at fifty? Mother o’ God, if she’s as hale and hearty as you are, Lizzie, when she’s fifty … well, that’s a question we’ll never see answered,’ Mickey Fleming said. ‘Strangled, was she?’

  Kinsella was tempted to remind the fiery little fellow that he was the one asking the questions but he found the exchange between the couple illuminating and sought to encourage it.

  ‘She was beaten to death,’ he said.

  ‘With a club?’

  ‘No, a teapot.’

  Mickey Fleming let out a hoot of laughter and covered his mouth with his fist. ‘Pardon me. I thought you said a teapot.’

  ‘I did. A big ornamental teapot painted with flowers. Do you recall seeing such a teapot in the Blooms’ house, Mrs Fleming?’

  ‘In the cupboard in the kitchen, yes. Mrs Bloom brought it home with her from her Belfast trip last summer. Mrs Bloom was very proud o’ it. Wouldn’t let me touch it.’

  ‘Was it always kept in the dresser cupboard?’

  ‘Not always,’ said Mrs Fleming. ‘When she was brought flowers she would have me put them in a dry vase in the bedroom and tell Mr Bloom to water them. She’d have him fill the teapot with water, fetch it up from the kitchen and fill the vase while she lay back on the bolster and watched.’

  ‘And laughed,’ said Mr Fleming. ‘You told me she laughed.’

  ‘She did, sometimes.’

  ‘How often did you witness this occurrence?’

  ‘Once or twice when I was clearing her breakfast tray. I offered to do it, to fill the vase, but she told me Mr Bloom loved flowers and was only too pleased to water them.’

  ‘And was he?’

  Mrs Fleming shrugged. ‘You could never tell with Mr Bloom.’

  ‘She barked, he jumped,’ said Mickey Fleming. ‘That’s the long and the short o’ it. He’d have licked her bum if she’d asked it of him. Maybe he did for all we know.’

  ‘You seem to have a particular down on Mrs Bloom, Mr Fleming,’ Kinsella said. ‘Did you know her well?’

  ‘Never clapped an eye on her in me life. How could I? I’ve been trapped in this rat hole for seven bloody years,’ Mickey Fleming said. ‘But I got ears. I hear everything Lizzie tells me and draw me own conclusions.’

  Gossip and hearsay were not admissible evidence in any court of law, at least in theory. Kinsella let the crucial question hang for a little longer. ‘Do you have children, Mr Fleming?’

  ‘Three boys, two girls.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘The little one’s at school,’ Lizzie Fleming said.

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘I sent them away,’ said the man. ‘Claire couldn’t get off fast enough. She’s up in Antrim, married to a Freemason. The boys go where the work is. Bristol for Alan. Glasgow for Bert and Willy.’

  ‘You must miss them?’ Jim Kinsella said.

  ‘Ay,’ Mickey Fleming admitted. ‘I do.’
/>   ‘All you did was quarrel,’ Mrs Fleming said.

  ‘It’s the quarrelling I miss,’ her husband said.

  ‘Do they send you money?’

  ‘When they can,’ Mrs Fleming said.

  ‘Not often enough,’ her husband added.

  ‘How do you manage?’

  ‘She works,’ Mickey Fleming said. ‘She may not be much o’ a wife but this I’ll say for her, she’s no shirker.’

  ‘I take it you’ve found another post, Mrs Fleming?’

  ‘With the railway.’ Her husband answered for her. ‘Tucks me up at half past ten, goes out on the tiles and comes home at six.’ He laughed and added, teasingly. ‘Says she’s cleaning carriages up in the Gallant Street sidings. That’s a tale and a half, that is. I think she’s got a fella out there. Eh, Lizzie?’

  ‘Surely not Mr Bloom?’ Kinsella said.

  ‘Never,’ Lizzie Fleming said. ‘Mr Bloom’s a gentleman, in spite of what she thought. Always at him, she was, about his roving eye, jealous of every woman ever crossed his path. She was even jealous o’ her own daughter. Milly was her daddy’s darling and it hurt him sore to have to send her off to Mullingar.’

  ‘Why did he send her away?’

  ‘For her own good,’ Mrs Fleming answered. ‘He didn’t want her to think less of her mother.’

  ‘You mean he didn’t want her catching her bloody mother with Boylan inside her,’ Mickey Fleming said.

  ‘Is that what you saw, Mrs Fleming?’

  ‘Only once, only a peek. I didn’t know he’d turned up early.’

  ‘Mrs Bloom was with Boylan in the bedroom, I take it?’