Harp was fascinated. ‘And what is this uncle like, is he nice?’ she asked.
‘Never clapped eyes on him in my life.’ JohnJoe shrugged. ‘But so far it’s good. I’ve a new suit of clothes and loads of food, and I’m sleeping in a really fancy hotel.’
Harp smiled at the idea that their home was a fancy hotel. ‘But won’t you miss your father, your brothers and sisters?’ she asked.
A shadow crossed his warm, open face. ‘My father doesn’t care about us. He drinks, and that’s all he cares about. My sisters, Kitty and Jane, were sent to England, and I’ve not seen them since I was nine.’
Harp now knew why something in this boy sparked compassion. He was hurt and let down by life but still managed to stay as cheerful as he did.
‘That’s terrible,’ was all she could add.
He nodded. ‘It’s how it is. I hope they’re all right. I dream about them sometimes, and hope they were at least kept together. Danny says my uncle might be able to find them, and if he can, then when I’m older, I can come back and see them.’
‘I really hope you do,’ Harp said, meaning every word.
‘So will we get some sweets?’ he asked. ‘My cousin said candy but I think he meant sweets. I haven’t had anything like that since before my mammy died. She used to get us a Cadbury’s chocolate bar for our birthdays.’
‘Did you not get anything nice in the…’ She was loathe to say the word ‘borstal’. There was shame in it, as only bad boys were sent there, but she couldn’t imagine JohnJoe being in trouble with the police.
He smiled and shook his head. ‘Barely enough bread, let alone anything else.’
He walked beside Harp as she went downstairs and popped into the kitchen.
‘Can I go down to Cronin’s with JohnJoe? He wants to buy some sweets for the voyage tomorrow, but he doesn’t know where to go.’ Harp hoped her mother wouldn’t say anything sharp; she could be a bit too strict at times. Luckily the softening effect of her new friend seemed to work on her mother as well. She eyed him up in a second and seemingly deemed him to be unthreatening.
‘All right, but straight there and straight back and no dilly-dallying,’ she said. ‘Does your cousin know you’re going out without him?’ she asked JohnJoe, albeit kindly.
‘He’s gone for tobacco and maybe to the pub, I don’t know. He gave me the money for sweets, though, so I think it’s all right,’ JohnJoe answered honestly.
‘Well then, I suppose it is.’ To Harp’s astonishment her mother then went to her purse and gave Harp a half penny. ‘You can buy yourself something nice too. After all your work, you deserve it.’
‘Thank you, Mammy,’ Harp said with a grin.
It was turning into a lovely day. Mammy didn’t like her to eat too many sweets. Mr Devereaux used to have a box of chocolates sent every month from Kavanagh’s sweetshop in Dublin, and each afternoon he would offer her one. Deliberating over the card showing the various different flavours and making a decision was one of their many rituals and one she never mentioned to her mother. Mr Devereaux always said he liked the coffee-flavoured ones or the raspberry creams, which she wasn’t partial to at all, but perhaps he just picked those, leaving her favourites for her. She suspected that was it.
As she led JohnJoe down the steps, she thought to herself how sad it was that her first and only friend was leaving the country the next evening. ‘Are you really excited about going to America?’ she asked. ‘I would be.’
He thought carefully about the answer. ‘I am, I think. Up to a few days ago, I was going to spend the rest of my childhood in borstal and probably then get sent someplace when I got to sixteen that is just as horrible, so anything is better than that. And then for Danny to turn up and treat me so nice and that, well, it’s not like it’s real, you know?’
‘I know.’ And though she had no idea about going to America at a moment’s notice, she understood perfectly how disconcerting it was to have your life suddenly change so much you barely recognised it.
‘I’m scared too, though,’ he admitted. ‘Like what if Danny is really nice but my uncle isn’t? My da is awful…’
He paused and she could see he was deliberating telling her something.
He made his decision and spoke up. ‘I think he sold me to my mother’s brother. Danny said he didn’t, that he was just giving my da a few bob, which will go down his neck anyway, but I think it was a deal.’
Harp was shocked but knew she couldn’t show it. ‘Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t do that, but either way, you get to have a better life in America, so does that really matter? As you said, the future looked kind of bleak before your cousin turned up, and well, it is the land of opportunity they say. And you’re a clever boy, so even if it didn’t work out with your uncle, you are somewhere new with all kinds of exciting prospects. And as you say, if you did well, you could come back and find your sisters.’
He smiled and his eyes twinkled. ‘I’d love that.’
They chatted easily as they walked along, and JohnJoe marvelled at the beauty of the town in the summer sunshine. Harp had never before in her life had a conversation of this length with anyone her own age, and she was enjoying it. She felt pride in her home town. Queenstown looked like something from a painting, with the green grass in the town park and the boats bobbing about on the turquoise water in the harbour.
The footpaths were full of ladies in lovely dresses emerging from the Imperial Hotel on the promenade, their hemlines just short enough to avoid their skirts trailing in the mud, their hats works of art in themselves. Their husbands were immaculate in three-piece suits, and they puffed on cigars ahead of boarding the ship bound for Boston. The passengers emerging from O’Flaherty’s boarding house would be much shabbier, but they were at the very end of the town, a place called the Holy Ground, and there were a few huckster shops down there to cater to their more modest needs.
Cronin’s sweetshop was on the corner of the town square, right across from the park with its colourful bandstand and picnic benches recessed into the perimeter.
‘It’s so nice here. You’re lucky to live somewhere so pretty,’ JohnJoe remarked as they entered the shop.
The aroma of molten sugar and toffee that met them was delicious. There was a wide counter full of glass jars, each containing a different kind of sweet. Mr Cronin also had a cold box where he kept the ices, and as JohnJoe and Harp waited, a well-dressed man bought two ice creams for a pair of little girls in frilly pink dresses with matching parasols.
When it was their turn, they chose carefully, and Mr Cronin didn’t rush them. He didn’t mind if children chose one of this and one of that; he made each customer feel like they had all the time in the world, though the queue was building behind them. They each chose the same things – liquorice, peppermint creams, a lollipop, a sherbet lemon and a chocolate fudge – and emerged into the sunshine again.
Harp knew she should really go straight home, but the park looked so inviting. She and JohnJoe crossed over and sat on a vacant bench, looking out over the harbour, sucking their sweets and chatting amicably.
‘Where is your home place?’ she asked.
‘Kilrush, County Clare. My mammy’s people were from there and my father married into my Grandfather Joe’s farm, but he was no farmer. Didn’t like working, I think. My granny and granda are dead now and so is Mammy, and all the family are long gone, so my father lives there alone.’
Harp could hear the pain in his voice and identified with it. ‘Is it nice?’ she asked.
He shrugged and stuffed the bag of sweets into the pocket of his very fine trousers. ‘It used to be. My granda was a great farmer, and he had cattle and sheep. My granny and then later my mam had a vegetable garden and kept ducks, geese and hens. They used to have a stall at the market, selling lovely fresh vegetables and eggs. But these days my father isn’t much of…well, he’s not much of anything, to be honest with you, Harp.’
‘Well, it’s all behind you now, JohnJoe, and I bet you
r granny and granda and your mammy would be so proud thinking of you going off to America…’ As she spoke, she felt something hard hit the back of her head. She raised her hand to see what it was and discovered it was a big lump of wet mud. Just then another missile got her between her shoulder blades and she knew the back of her dress was ruined. She turned and saw Emmet Kelly walking outside the park railings, on his own this time, whistling nonchalantly.
‘Did he just throw that muck at you?’ JohnJoe asked incredulously.
‘It’s best to ignore him. He’s only looking for attention,’ Harp said calmly, standing up and trying to get the mud out of her hair.
JohnJoe took his handkerchief out of his pocket and started to wipe the back of her dress.
‘Have you got yourself a boyfriend, Harp? He must be a quare hawk like your dear departed daddy,’ Emmet called through the railings, then laughed. ‘Stay away from that one, I’d advise you, boyo.’ He pointed at Harp and her cheeks burned as people began to watch. A large crowd was gathered outside Dan Mac’s pub on the corner, some men drinking bottles of stout in the sunshine. Dan Mac’s had a reputation as being a rough kind of house, and the clientele were delighted with a bit of drama, even if it was just children.
‘She’s not right in the head, sure you’re not, Harp?’ Emmet pointed to his temple and twisted his finger.
Before Harp could register what was happening, JohnJoe sprinted out of the park and punched Emmet in the mouth, and then in fast succession dealt a series of blows to the abdomen, which caused Emmet to double over, howling. Harp watched in horror as Oliver Kelly, Emmet’s father, who’d been drinking in Dan Mac’s, appeared and pulled JohnJoe off Emmet. He was about to hit him when Danny sprinted across the road. He caught Oliver Kelly’s fist mid-air and spun him around. Harp saw a glint of something in Danny’s hand, and when he punched Mr Kelly, Mr Kelly’s cheek burst open and blood spattered in all directions.
‘Let’s get outta here, kid.’ Danny grabbed JohnJoe and ducked down a lane.
Harp heard the constable’s whistle before she saw him and knew she needed to get JohnJoe and his cousin out of there quickly. She ran after them down the dead-end lane. ‘Quickly, follow me,’ she hissed as they encountered the base of the old town walls that dated back to medieval times, fifty feet high.
Harp opened the garden gate of the last house on the lane. Old Mrs Lynch lived there and was deaf as a post; she’d never notice them slipping through her garden and out onto the steps. Danny and JohnJoe followed her, and together they scrambled over Lynch’s back wall and were soon on another narrow set of steps that linked to the main set that cut through the town. They scampered up the steps and into the Cliff House garden.
Danny took a metal contraption that Harp recognised as a knuckleduster from his fingers and was about to put it in his pocket. A villain in one of her detective books had an engraved gold knuckleduster. ‘They’re illegal here,’ she murmured. ‘Best get rid of it.’
Danny looked uncertain, but she took it from him and sank it into the large stone planter of newly dug soil positioned inside the garden gate. Her mother intended to set some petunias there the next day. She scattered the soil over the indentation and led them to the back of the house.
To her horror she saw Inspector Deane, the local constable, approach the front door. He was sweating profusely as he rested his bicycle against the wall.
Harp stopped and whispered urgently to both of them, ‘You just punched him with your bare fist because he was about to hit your cousin, and JohnJoe was only defending me after Emmet threw mud all over me.’
Danny chuckled as he followed her inside. ‘You got it, kid.’
They found Rose speaking to the policeman in the hallway, looking stern.
‘I believe he is a guest here, Mrs Delaney, but I will need to speak to him immediately. Mr Kelly is in a very bad way, and the attack was entirely unprovoked it seems.’
Harp walked in. ‘It wasn’t at all an unprovoked attack, Inspector Deane.’ She sounded more confident than she felt and she caught her mother’s eye. ‘Let me handle this,’ her eyes said. She knew she needed to sound authoritative, so she did her best. ‘Emmet Kelly, the son of the alleged victim, has been harassing me for several months and has been spreading rumours and malicious gossip about me and my mother around the town. Frankly we were to the point of reporting him to you. My mother has witnessed one such incident, but there are several. Today when I was showing a guest around the town, Emmet threw mud at me, as you can see.’ Harp turned and hoped the back of her cream dress and her hair were sufficiently soiled as to make an impression.
Inspector Deane was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by a child, but something about Harp seemed to make him listen rather than dismiss her.
‘JohnJoe here crossed the road to speak to him and ask him to desist, but it descended into fisticuffs.’ She skimmed over the bit that it was JohnJoe who hit Emmet first. ‘Then Oliver Kelly, a man we all know is prone to physical assault – had he not a conviction last year for actual bodily harm? – was about to attack JohnJoe, a boy considerably his junior. JohnJoe’s cousin and guardian, Danny, happened to be walking on the other side of the street and then saw what was happening to his young cousin, so he dashed over to intervene. Yes, a fight did ensue, but it was started by both of the Kellys, so I suggest, Inspector Deane, if anyone has a charge to answer, it is them.’
The adults in the room were silent, probably struck by the sheer audacity of a girl speaking as such. Harp knew that it was not what one said that mattered but how one said it. She was a huge fan of Conan Doyle and Holmesian deduction and hoped she sounded a little like him.
Inspector Deane, a small-sized bald man who perspired at the slightest exertion, looked hesitant. He was an ineffectual law enforcer at best and was far more interested in his prize-winning greyhounds than entertaining petty squabbles. ‘But Mr Kelly’s face is badly injured and –’
Rose, taking her cue from Harp, intervened. ‘Mr Kelly is a bully, Inspector, as is his son. My daughter is quite right – I was on the brink of making a complaint. Perhaps this encounter will teach both of them a lesson. It is up to you entirely, but I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if this matter was left to lie. Otherwise we will have no option but to take it further. Slander and harassment are serious allegations to make, I know, but if you press this, I’m afraid we would have no option.’
Danny and JohnJoe read Harp’s look correctly and remained silent.
Deane was a lazy man and the paperwork involved with taking statements and so on, not to mention having to deal with the unruly Kelly family, was not a prospect he relished. He thought for a moment, and Harp could see him weighing it all up and trying to find the least taxing option for himself.
Rose continued in her most imperious tone. ‘You may tell Mr Kelly that if this matter goes no further, and he instructs his son to refrain from having any contact whatsoever with my daughter, we will, in the interests of peace and harmony, not proceed with a case. But should he wish to escalate this, then we will be only too happy to. The town authorities will not be best pleased with the newspapers reporting on perfectly respectable liner passengers being assaulted in Queenstown – it gives entirely the wrong message.’ She glanced at Danny, who was failing at supressing a grin, and he put on a straight face.
‘In addition, Mr Coveney here is a journalist with the Boston Globe and is writing a feature on Queenstown as a destination – we were just discussing it earlier. He was hoping to write a very positive piece about the place. I fear his experiences with one of the town’s less desirable inhabitants won’t improve our prospects.’
The town magistrate was none other than Mr Charles Bridges, the owner of the Imperial Hotel, and if he would be horrified at such a story reaching the Irish press, he’d have a heart attack if he thought it was going all the way to America. It was very much in his interest that the town be presented as a pleasant and idyllic location for the thousan
ds that used the port every year.
Harp watched as the policeman thought quickly. The situation was rapidly getting out of hand, and his pores showed how harassed he was; he wiped the sweat from his brow.
‘Yes, well, we’re very sorry that you had to endure that, Mr…uh…Mr Coveney…’ the policeman began.
Danny looked at him and held up a hand indicating he should forget the whole thing. ‘Please, Inspector, think no more of it.’ He took a small notebook from his pocket, removed the pencil in the spine and licked the lead before writing. ‘Now, your name was Inspector Deane – is that with or without an “e”?’
Deane puffed up. ‘I… That won’t be necessary…’ he began, growing more flustered by the second.
‘Oh, but, sir, proper law enforcement is the cornerstone of any civilised society. I want our American readers to choose Queenstown, not just as a stop off on the way to England but as a destination in its own right. I really get a wonderful impression of your town, the occasional nincompoop notwithstanding.’ He chuckled and Deane self-consciously joined in. ‘If people feel they can come here and be looked after, then I’m sure everyone would appreciate the boost in business, and you would be the cause. There are so many Irish men and women in Boston who long to come home to the old country. Adding your name gives it the personal touch. I’ll be sure to send some copies over once I file and it goes to print.’
‘Well, when you put it like that, I suppose it would give any visitors a sense that they were safe…’
‘Exactly!’ Danny agreed. ‘And in the light of all the negativity surrounding the tragedy that was Titanic, the town could use a boost, am I right?’
‘Well, yes. It was a terrible loss, and while it had nothing to do with us here obviously, it still had a negative effect. And you say you could send some copies here so that people could read the article?’
‘Of course.’ Danny smiled.
‘Well, in that case it’s Deane with an “e” – Inspector Albert Deane.’
He looked so pleased with himself that Harp couldn’t look at her mother in case she giggled, and JohnJoe was watching the drama unfold with fascination.
Last Port of Call: The Queenstown Series Page 18
