Last Port of Call: The Queenstown Series

by Jean Grainger

  ‘No, they’re not, of course.’ His father sounded irritated now, and JohnJoe instinctively knew it was best to stay quiet.

  He longed to know where they were. Kitty would be sixteen now, and Jane five. Maybe they were at home? He felt a pang of pain. ‘So where are they?’ he asked tentatively.

  His father exhaled impatiently. ‘Where are who?’

  ‘My sisters.’ JohnJoe tried to keep his voice respectful.

  His father took another drink. ‘In England, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you know where?’ he asked hopefully.

  His father sighed exasperatedly as if JohnJoe’s requests were the height of inconvenience.

  ‘No, with your mother’s sister probably, but I lost the address.’

  They made the rest of the journey in silence, not stopping for any food, though JohnJoe was ravenous. Eventually, late that night, they arrived at the old stone house on the edge of Kilrush. He barely recognised it. He’d been happy there one time, with a few cows in the byre, hens running about the well-kept yard and the side garden tended carefully into rows of different vegetables. Nothing had been done for years by the looks of it, and the entire place was run down and overgrown and choked with weeds. His mammy and his granda would be turning in their graves to see the state of the place now.

  He climbed down and went for the door, but his father threw the reins at him. ‘Untack and feed and water her,’ he barked, and went inside.

  JohnJoe did as he was told, leading the horse to the stable and piking in some hay. There was an old barrel of water there and she began to drink thirstily. When she was settled and the trap pushed inside, he went to the house. It was cold and smelled dirty.

  Of his father there was no sign; the only indication he was there was a loud snoring coming from upstairs. JohnJoe looked for a candle but found none, so he rummaged in the dark for a piece of bread or anything to eat. There was nothing, so he sat in the chair by the empty hearth and fell asleep.

  The morning dawned bright and clear and he had a chance to look around. The kitchen was filthy and smelled of something horrible. The last time he was there was the day of Mammy’s funeral; he and the girls were sent away the day after. He tried to shut his eyes tight and remember it as it was – the fire burning in the hearth, a loaf of soda bread on the bastable over the fire, Mammy sitting by the fire in the evenings, darning or knitting. Everything smelling warm and clean and safe.

  The last thing he’d eaten was porridge the previous morning at the borstal, and he was so hungry he felt he might faint. But there was nothing in the house. He went outside, hoping he might find something. He spotted some strawberries – his mother used to trail the plants up the garden wall to avail of the summer sun – and so he dived on them, eating all he could find. His father was gone and so he waited. He decided to sit outside rather than in that house where only ghosts and memories lay. In there he was reminded of all he’d lost – his mother, his sisters, his family, his home.

  At least he was free.

  He had no way of knowing how long he waited there – hours probably. The sun was high in the sky by the time a motor car appeared in the yard. JohnJoe had only seen a few motor cars in his life and they fascinated him. He’d never even looked inside one before, and there one was, in his father’s yard.

  Intrigued, he watched as his father got out one side of the back and a man he didn’t recognise stepped out of the other door. There was a driver who remained in the car.

  ‘So this is the famous JohnJoe O’Dwyer, huh?’ The young man spoke with an American accent, and JohnJoe thought he was like the carmaker Henry Ford – he’d seen a picture of him once. The man wore a suit with a matching waistcoat and a shirt with gold collar studs. He took off his hat and raised it in a gesture of greeting. His dark hair was cut in a fashionable style, longer on top, and JohnJoe got a whiff of a spicy cologne. He was the most exotic person JohnJoe had ever seen.

  ‘Yessir, I’m JohnJoe,’ he answered, though he was most certainly not famous. The man said his name like it was two names, John and Joe, when everyone he knew ran the two together.

  ‘Nice to meet ya, kid.’ He smiled, extending his hand. ‘My name is Danny Coveney. I’m your cousin.’

  JohnJoe was perplexed but shook the man’s hand. A cousin? In America?

  ‘My Aunt Kathy is married to your Uncle Pat, your mom’s brother, so we’re more like cousins through marriage, but let’s not get too hung up on technicalities. He sent me here to get ya, take you back to Boston. Whataya think of that, kid?’

  ‘I…I’d love it,’ he managed to blurt.

  The man chuckled and punched him playfully on the shoulder. ‘Sure you would. OK then, let’s get outta here.’ He looked at JohnJoe questioningly. ‘Go get your stuff.’

  ‘I don’t have any…stuff, sir…’ JohnJoe said, hoping this wasn’t a mark against him.

  The man shrugged. ‘OK. Whatever. Get in the car – we got a train to catch. I just need to talk to your father. I’ll be right there.’ He said father like ‘faahthaa’, and JohnJoe wondered if all Americans sounded like that.

  JohnJoe approached the vehicle with a combination of awe and trepidation. Was this really happening, an exotic stranger with lovely clothes turning up and telling him he was going to America? But first he’d get to ride in a real motor car and then a train? He’d never been on anything but a pony and trap before. He did as he was instructed and walked to the shiny black automobile. The driver stared ahead. His dark-green uniform was magnificent. On his head he wore a hat like the senior officers of the police wore, with a peak and a black band and everything. JohnJoe was transfixed.

  The vehicle had no roof. He opened the door and climbed up. The interior was black leather that squeaked as his bare legs in his short trousers inched across the seat.

  Sure someone was about to give him a clip around the ear for having the impertinence to be near such a vehicle, he watched as the man, Danny, gave his father some money. JohnJoe wondered what on earth was going on. Yesterday he was facing years of the borstal, followed no doubt, according to the priests who ran the place, by prison because of his bad character and criminal disposition. And now here he was sitting in a motor car on his way to America. He should feel sad, he supposed, leaving his father and all hope of being reunited with Kitty and Jane, but his father clearly didn’t care where he went and Kitty and Jane were in England somewhere so he would never have been able to find them. The farm was a sorry version of how it once was, and it broke JohnJoe’s heart to see all the work and pride his mother and grandfather put into it wasted.

  Danny exchanged a few words with JohnJoe’s father, who pocketed the money, and JohnJoe wondered if he would ever see his father again. He found the thought wasn’t really painful. Would he come to the car to say goodbye? Surely he would. JohnJoe sat up straight and put his shoulders back. He wanted his father to see a good boy, someone he could be proud of. But after the short exchange between him and Danny, his father just went into the house; he never even looked in his son’s direction.

  Moments later Danny sat down beside him and grinned. ‘Let’s get outta this dump, eh?’ He winked.

  They had arrived to Ennis, the biggest town in County Clare, early enough to go into a gentleman’s outfitters before crossing to the station. JohnJoe was now dressed in the finest clothes he’d ever seen. He had polished shoes, stockings, long trousers and a jacket. His shirt and tie were fitted most carefully once the man in the shop saw the wad of cash in Danny’s wallet. Danny even bought him a lovely hat. JohnJoe felt wonderful.

  ‘We can’t bring a ragamuffin to Uncle Pat now, can we?’ Danny had said as he paid for the outfit and several other garments as well – sweaters, pyjamas, underwear, some spare shirts and even a coat, something JohnJoe had never owned before. And then he bought him a leather travelling case to put it all into.

  The train was another excitement. Danny bought them first-class tickets, so they had a compartment to themselves.


  ‘Mr Coveney.’ JohnJoe nudged him, fearing his reaction at being woken but badly needing the toilet.

  ‘Hrrmh…’ he groaned, and then opened one eye. ‘Oh hey, JohnJoe, you OK, li’l man?’

  ‘I… Mr Coveney, sir, I need the toilet.’ He blushed.

  ‘Well, don’t let me stop ya, kid.’ He stood up and gestured that JohnJoe should pass.

  ‘I… Is there one on the train?’ he asked, feeling very foolish, but he didn’t like to admit to Danny that it was his first trip on a train as well.

  ‘Ain’t you never been on a train before?’ Danny asked with a grin.

  ‘No, Mr Coveney…’ JohnJoe began.

  ‘OK, first off, call me Danny, everyone does. No more with this Mr Coveney. Only my old man is called that. Secondly, if you go to the end of the carriage, there’ll be a door, and in there is the can.’

  Seeing JohnJoe’s look of confusion, he added, ‘The bathroom, the john, where you go pee-pee.’ He cuffed JohnJoe across the head playfully. ‘Where did they keep you, kid? Under a rock? Now git.’

  JohnJoe left the compartment and walked in the direction of the back of the train. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass and could hardly recognise himself. Just as Danny predicted, there was a toilet in a cubicle, and he went in. On the way back he saw a woman pushing a cart laden with buns and sandwiches.

  He was so hungry but didn’t like to say it, after Mr Cov – Danny had been so generous. But when he got back to the compartment, he was delighted to see Danny had bought some sandwiches and three different kinds of buns, as well as two cups of tea that were on a tray with some biscuits.

  Danny handed JohnJoe a cup of hot tea and thumbed at the pile of food on the seat. ‘Help yourself, kid. I didn’t know what anything was. The old lady selling it was talking Gaelic or somethin’.’ He picked up a sandwich and examined it. ‘They sure got some strange food here, so I got a bunch of things.’

  JohnJoe descended on the sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper. He sank his teeth into the bread, delighting in the creamy butter and salty ham inside. He slurped the tea and swallowed the sandwich in two minutes flat.

  ‘Keep working on it – you look like you need it.’ Danny chuckled, then lit a cigarette and sipped his tea. ‘Urgh.’ He winced. ‘What is this stuff?’ He looked at the tea. ‘Oh man, it tastes like boiled weeds. Get me back stateside. This place…’ He shook his head and shuddered.

  JohnJoe smiled. ‘Try putting milk and sugar in it, it’s nice.’ He took the small jug of milk from the tray and poured it into Danny’s tea and then added two spoons of sugar from the bowl, stirring it.

  Danny tried it, wincing again. ‘It’s not coffee, but it’s OK.’ He smiled as JohnJoe began on an egg sandwich. ‘So story goes you’re a bit of a hellraiser, huh?’ he asked, sucking on his cigarette.

  ‘I don’t know what that is,’ JohnJoe answered truthfully.

  ‘Sure you do.’ Danny winked. ‘How comes you wound up in juvie?’

  JohnJoe hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

  ‘The place where you were, where your old man went to get you?’ Danny looked at him as if he were slow.

  ‘Oh, borstal? I was sent there when my mammy died. My aunt in England took my sisters and they sent me there ’cause my da was a drinker, still is.’

  A softness crossed Danny’s face and JohnJoe felt safe. Danny was the nicest person he’d ever met, apart from his mammy, of course.

  ‘Jeez, kid, you didn’t do nothing wrong to get sent there? No stealing or nothing? What was it like?’ he asked gently.

  JohnJoe shrugged. He didn’t want to remember. ‘Terrible.’

  It was the truth, of course. It had been horrible. But there was no point in bringing all that up here. He was going to America with Danny, and he had fancy new clothes and lots of food. Things were good, so best leave the past where it belonged.

  ‘I bet it was. If it’s anything like the place they sent me when I was your age, juvie, y’know… And that was only for six months, but it sure felt longer. The Lyman School for Boys, out near Westborough, but you don’t know where that is. Man, that was bad, real bad. The old guy and his wife that ran our cottage, he was vicious and she wasn’t much better. One stint there was enough for me.’

  ‘Why did they send you there? Did your mother die?’ JohnJoe asked. He’d never been so forward with an adult before, but Danny seemed not to mind.

  ‘Nah, she’s still kickin’.’ He grinned. ‘Kickin’ my old man mostly.’ He chuckled. ‘I didn’t like school much, so I didn’t go, and eventually they got the truant guy after me and they locked me up, taught me some manners.’ He lit another cigarette, and as he did, JohnJoe saw the tattoo on his wrist. It was of a shamrock, the three-leaved emblem of Ireland.

  ‘And did you just get out after six months? They let you go home?’ JohnJoe asked, then took a bite of a currant bun.

  ‘Yeah, but my old man knew there wasn’t no point in sendin’ me back to school, so I went to work for Uncle Pat.’

  ‘What sort of work was that?’ JohnJoe was intrigued.

  ‘All sorts of things. Uncle Pat’s a powerful guy, JohnJoe. He got fingers in lots of pies, y’know?’

  JohnJoe nodded, though he had not the faintest clue what Danny was referring to. Was he a pie maker? Maybe if he made pies, there would at least be lots to eat.

  Danny looked out the window. ‘It’s so green everywhere,’ he remarked. ‘Back home they say it is, singing songs about the green fields and the rivers and mountains and stuff, but it’s real, huh?’

  Again JohnJoe didn’t know how to reply. Yes, the fields were green – what other colour would they be? Weren’t American fields green too?

  ‘Oh wow, look there, what the… What is that?’ Danny pointed excitedly out the window at the large McNamara castle standing in a field beside the track.

  ‘It’s a castle. Don’t you have them in America?’ JohnJoe asked, glad that the Irish countryside was delighting his cousin so much, even if he couldn’t really understand why.

  When he was small, his mammy used to take him and his sisters for picnics to the fairy fort on their land. She used to tell them how neither his daddy nor his granda, nor his before that, would ever allow cattle or sheep in there, nor would they use it for growing crops, because it was owned by the fairies and you wouldn’t want to get on the bad side of them – terrible things could happen to you if you did. There was a hawthorn tree – everyone knew they were magical – right in the middle of the ring fort, and he wished now he’d had time to show it to Danny. By the sounds of it, he would have been really excited to see it.

  Danny hooted. ‘No, JohnJoe, we do not got any castles in America. You don’t listen in history class either, I guess, eh?’

  JohnJoe gave a sheepish grin. Classes in the borstal were mostly about trying to avoid getting a hiding and much less about learning anything.

  Danny went on. ‘Christopher Columbus discovered America in 1492, and then it took hundreds of years for people to come from Europe and everywhere else, and they all together built up America. The Irish are big over there – they’re gonna love you with your brogue and everything. Uncle Pat talks a bit like you, I guess. He’s been in Boston for as long as I can remember, but he says he’s Irish through and through. We stick together, y’know? You gotta understand that about America – you need to stick with your own kind. Don’t go messing around with Jews or Italians or Russians – they got their own thing going, and we stay outta each other’s way. Folks who know where they are, where they need to stay, they fare the best.’

  JohnJoe had never in his whole life met anyone who wasn’t Irish, so the idea of having connections to such exotic people as Italians or Russians was incredible to him. And the only time he’d ever heard of Jews was in the Bible.

  Danny was fascinated by the castle, and to his apparent delight, the train slowed down for some reason and he was able to get a good look. ‘What’s that bit at the top, the bit of
wall outside the main wall?’ he wondered.

  ‘It’s a garderobe,’ JohnJoe said, delighted to seem knowledgeable for once.

  ‘A what?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Well, it was a toilet really. They would sit on the wall at the top and, well…’ JohnJoe went red.

  ‘Oh, gee…that’s so amazing.’ Danny was craning his neck to see inside.

  ‘And just above the castle door sometimes there was a murder hole, a place they could pour boiling oil or water or sometimes the contents of the chamber pots down on anyone they didn’t like.’

  ‘Ha, ha! We could use that back in Boston, any unwanted visitors getting a nice surprise!’ Danny seemingly loved the idea.

  JohnJoe was warming to his theme. His mammy had told him all about castles. There were many of them all around West Clare, and she and her sisters used to play in them all the time. ‘The small narrow windows were because it was easy to fire arrows out and hard to get them in, and all staircases in castles went anticlockwise, because it meant the advantage was with the defender in a swordfight. Coming down an anticlockwise staircase, if you were right-handed like most people are, you would be dominant.’

  ‘Go on.’ Danny was hanging on his every word, and JohnJoe had never enjoyed such attention in his life.

  ‘Well, that’s why left-handed people were always considered strange or odd, sinister even. The Latin word for left is sinistram, and that’s where we get the word sinister from. But they were kind of sought after as swordsmen because they were useful for attacking up a staircase.’

  ‘No kiddin’?’ Danny seemed intrigued. ‘Uncle Pat’s gonna love you, kid. He’s all into the old Irish history and all of that, the kings and the druids and the chieftains. How comes you know so much? They teach ya that at school?’

  JohnJoe shook his head. ‘No, my mammy knew things like that. She told me and my sister. But are there no old buildings in America?’ It was his turn to be fascinated.