He sold the picture to the local Argus that day and, later in the week, sold a second, slightly different photograph to The Freeman’s Journal.
The driver never regained consciousness. He was taken to the infirmary, in the back of a flatbed cart, where they diagnosed a bleed to the brain, on account of a fracture to the skull. He died that night in a white bed, surrounded by his wife and older two children.
The headlines read Man Dies as Street Collapses in Drogheda and Two Injured, One Dead as Tunnel Opens Up in Drogheda.
The man’s employers made a donation of £50 to his family and paid for a granite gravestone.
The council met with its engineers and an inspection was ordered to update the ground drawings for all future roadworks. When the men, carrying lanterns, descended the stone steps, leading to the ancient town tunnels at Laurence Street, a rat scampered by their boots, unnoticed in the dark.
Letter of Correspondence
Gardiner Street, Dublin, March 1880
Dear Susan,
Well, I am a free man. They let me out a littler earlier than expected.
After all this time it’s hard to believe that I can now do as I please. I thought it would be very liberating and it is, but truth be told it has also been strange. I feel the world is a different place and I am a bit left behind.
I have found a job and I have my eye on a place. I am happy for the time being. I will write with the new address.
I don’t know about coming back home yet. I don’t feel I would be welcome. Maybe you can try to find out the lay of the land?
Don’t put yourself out and don’t cause any arguments, but it would be nice to know that I could visit sometime.
Maybe mention me to Winnie and see what she says.
Your loving brother,
Christy
Chapter 13
Christy
The air felt cool on his skin. He noticed every part of him that it touched – his face, flowing over his cheeks, tweaking his nose. He felt a gentle wind brush past his ears.
Ten years he’d waited for this.
Outside the world was turning, as if it had never stopped. Women with children walked by. Other children, some small, some bigger, gathered in groups in the road, shouting, sitting, skipping.
Delivery boys with handcarts went by. A large carriage laden down with passengers passed. He felt the excitement rise as he walked, down the road, away from Mountjoy Gaol, not looking back.
At last, he was out.
He walked past churches and cottages, townhouses and the gates of the large grey infirmary, enjoying each step of his freedom. He’d been told not to dawdle, so he didn’t, but he took everything in.
The girls. The boys. The women.
He passed through Dorset Street and walked down Parnell Square. He looked at the houses, with their brasses shining and windows sparkling. Doors were opening and basements taking in deliveries. Maids were out scrubbing steps. In the cool of the March morning, the scent of Jeyes disinfectant hung in the air.
Waiting horses chomped in their nosebags, brushed hair gleaming against their harnesses. Owning a horse and cab would be grand, he thought. He wouldn’t mind doing a bit of driving at all.
Sackville Street loomed large in front of him. Its wide avenue opened up into a plaza ahead. He stopped and stood for a moment just to take it in. What a sight for the eyes, for the senses of a man who had seen nothing but grey, dripping closed-in walls for the past decade.
He stopped and bought a penny newspaper. He’d go and have a cup of tea to read it. A free man could do a thing like that.
The café was warm when he entered. Other men sat, their heads bent low over steaming cups, blowing on them.
He kept his head behind the newspaper, looking over the headlines, taking in the news, getting to grips with the world he had been let back into. Accidents, tragedies, political rows, diplomatic controversies – it was all happening on the pages in front of him.
He turned to the advertisements and asked the café woman for a pencil, marking the ‘rooms vacant’ and ‘men wanted’ adverts that appealed. There were rooms and jobs going – he just had to pick and hope Lady Luck was on his side.
He’d go and get his hair cut, he thought, styled into something more than the rough hatchet jobs they’d been subjected to in there. Hell, he might even have a wet shave.
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and smiled.
Good morning, world, good morning. It’s fit and well you’re lookin’.
The woman who showed him the room had deep lines on her face and patchy dyed hair. He expected she’d retired from the game. He wondered whether she still did a bit on the side, opening business up for men like him, who got out after ten years. Still, though, he could probably do better than her. And he would, maybe later, if he felt like it.
“Breakfast is between eight and half past nine. No stragglers. We can do a dinner if you want but there’s plenty of options around here.”
She didn’t want to be cooking. Not for the likes of him anyway.
“This is a respectable establishment,” she said, as he looked around at the shabby bedspread, worn lamp and plain wooden chair. “No tomfoolery. No women. No drinking. No fighting.”
She looked at him straight. “No women,” she repeated.
He smiled sweetly. “Understood.”
“You have three days’ board paid. If you want to extend it, you need to let me know by Wednesday evening.”
The room was acrid, the sweat of men tasting freedom for the first time ingrained in the peeling wallpaper. He wouldn’t be staying here longer than three days.
He took out his belongings from his canvas bag, laying them out neatly. He left his folded clothes on the bed.
From the bottom of the bag he took out a sheet of writing paper, put it on the wooden chair and hunkered down to write with the pencil he’d taken from the girl in the café.
My dearest Maggie,
And so I am free. I hope to have new lodgings soon. I am glad to be out, as you can imagine.
Is the deed done? How are plans progressing?
I will write with my new address,
Your loving
Christy
He would send it this morning and it might even reach her by this evening.
And now, he would go for a walk.
A free man could do a thing like that.
He watched the jarveys and the cab men, lined up at Stephen’s Green. It seemed like a grand job altogether, sitting around chatting in between fares, well covered up in those cabs, a blanket if you wanted it around your knees. Of course, he’d have to learn all the street names and the geography a bit better, but he could do that. He could learn.
Best of all he’d see all sorts. Different houses. The southside.
He left Stephen’s Green and made his way along Grafton Street, looking at the wares on offer. He fingered the coins in his pocket. He might buy himself a new waistcoat maybe, it would look good and proper on a cab.
For now, he needed a new jacket or something that made him look employable, less like a man who had been in Mountjoy Gaol for the past decade. He turned off Grafton Street in search of a pawn shop.
“Give me that cap,” he said, noticing a grey-and-brown-flecked peaked cap hung up on a perch behind the woman at the counter. It matched the brown jacket and braces he’d picked out.
He would change later and go about his new accommodation and job search. He’d look like a new man, in his new clobber.
A good, working class man. Honest as they come.
“It’s not usually a job I’d give to a man like yourself.”
“I’m new to the city, I’m just looking for a few bob. Try me out and if you’re not happy I’ll be on my way.”
The cabbie looked him up and down. They were standing in front of a block of stables, cobblestones wet with the spring shower that had just come down upon them.
Horses stuck their heads over the stable
doors, tossing them, whinnying. Some had old coats on them, torn in parts.
“It’s dirty work,” said the man. “But my stable boy’s gone to Jacob’s. Never thought he’d trade horses for biscuits, but there you go.”
Christy had responded to the advert in the newspaper: Stablehand wanted, experience with horses required. He knew by the address it was in and around where they stabled the horses for the hackney cabs. They were busy work horses, out on the street at all times of day and night. He’d be driving in no time.
He didn’t know much about horses but he knew you couldn’t be scared of them, that you had to stand your ground. As long as he was confident with them, he’d be grand, and if it’s one thing Christy McCoy had, it was confidence in himself.
“Can you start today?”
“Aye, I can, no bother at all.”
“Them clothes are too good – you’ll need something more suited to stable work.”
“That’s no bother.”
“There’s an apron you can wear in the tack room there – it was the boy’s though – it might be too small.”
“I’ll be grand.”
“I wouldn’t normally take on a man like yourself, sure you’re nearly as old as myself, but I don’t have time to muck out them stables today and there’ll be a whole new shift coming in now in the next hour.”
“I’ll get to work then.”
The man looked bemused as his new worker took off his brown jacket and wrapped the small apron around himself. He took a pitchfork, went into the first stable and started tossing the hay, separating the muck from the clean bedding.
“Good man,” said the cabbie. “Good man.”
And he was off. Shovelling shit, his first day out of prison.
No one could say he wasn’t a hard worker. No one could deny that at all.
He walked back to his accommodation that evening, satisfied with himself. Tomorrow, he’d go looking for new digs. He was sure he’d find something suitable. Something central. Maybe even with a bit of class to it.
He had the goo on him now. He didn’t know whether to go for a drink or go down the Monto. He couldn’t really afford to do both until Maggie sent him a few pound. A drink would taste good, sliding down his throat, a nice cold glass of stout after all that mucking out today. But he was tired, and he knew he’d sleep well if he got what was coming to him, after all that time inside, away from the softness of a woman.
He washed himself in his room, splashing the water over his head and face, using soap to wash away the smell of the stable. The stink was in his clothes though, nothing he could do about that.
Feeling smarter, he left and walked slowly down Gardiner Street, taking note of the houses and the women gathering, spilling out onto the street. By Purdon Street, they were catcalling him and he kept his hands in his pockets and his head down, waiting till he saw the right one.
He saw the stockings first. Loose at the ankles. Beautiful ankles in pretty shoes, holding down petite little legs.
He looked up and took in the frilly nightdress she was wearing, her skin exposed at the shoulders, her hair bleached and curled all around her face.
She looked nothing like Maggie.
“Looking for a good time?” she asked.
He noticed the way she stood, her legs pressed together, one ankle bent as if curtsying to him.
He wanted her.
“I might be,” he said.
“I have a place down here,” she said, nodding in the direction of Faithful Place.
Faithful indeed.
She turned and walked and he followed her, catching up, taking in her tiny back and the curve of her neck under all those curls. She led him into the house, where the door was open, and straight up a staircase into a room upstairs. He could hear someone else at it and it got his blood going.
“What would you like?” she said, staring at him. She had long eyelashes that batted against her cheeks when she blinked. She looked like a country girl.
“Take off your clothes,” he said. “Slowly.”
And so she started to peel off the layers of chiffon, lace and ribbon, the barely there nightdress falling to the floor. Underneath she wore stockings and a silk corset.
He reached for her, grabbed her. She stepped back with the shock of his lunge, then forward again and kissed him back. She smelled of fruit, some sort of citrus scent.
She was young too, not that young, but young enough to be his type.
He undid her corset at the back, letting his hands wander over her small breasts, then pulled her stockings down himself.
He took her bent over the bed, going at her, hard.
There was no need to lie down, to be soft, or gentle or to even savour this moment.
He was paying her after all.
He might have hurt her, she cried out a bit, but that only excited him more.
Whores. Sent by God, to the Monto, for him.
And yet he thought of Maggie when he came.
Chapter 14
William D. Thomas
“She is the picture of her mother, wouldn’t you say?” Mrs. Winchester said.
She held the child out, as though examining a piece of china or a valuable prize pup. She brought the baby up close and then further away, trying to focus her eyes on the child’s features.
“Absolute picture,” she said. “See her little nose there and the shape of her mouth. She will be a beauty, I’d say. Her mother was such a beauty.”
The child’s grandmother was sighing now, turning her mouth downwards, her breath blowing the small wisp of dark hair at the front of the baby’s forehead.
“And the Nanny?” she asked, dabbing a tear that had appeared in the corner of her eye. “Where did you get her from?”
“The newspaper advert,” he said quietly.
He was standing at the far end of the nursery, observing his mother-in-law who had arrived unexpectedly at the house, all flounce and black frills, her maid sitting below in his front room, a tall carriage outside the door.
“Oh,” she sniffed. “I could have assisted you with that. There was really no need to take out a newspaper advertisement, William. You could have got anyone showing up. And it lets everyone know our business. It’s so common really. Why didn’t you wait? I could have sourced a very decent woman from any number of families. The Gilliespies have more than one nanny – as have the McMonacles – they would have been happy to lend us a hand while we searched for a permanent replacement.”
“I didn’t have time to wait,” he said. “She is perfectly fine. She came with references. She’s from Dublin and has good experience. I really don’t need a headache over this.”
“Yes, but it’s so vital, William, to get the right one. It will stand to you and the child much better. I’d like to speak with her.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” he said.
“I’d just like to speak with her,” she said. “Am I not entitled to talk to the woman who has primary care of my granddaughter?”
He was not in the mood for his mother-in-law and her nosiness and her thousand questions over minute details. Her very presence annoyed him, and he couldn’t wait to see her up and leave and close the front door with a bang.
After Anna’s funeral, he had resisted all requests from friends who wished to visit, wanting only to grieve alone. Now Mrs. Winchester had turned up regardless. She would not be kept away.
“Please bring her in,” she insisted.
Sighing, William left the room to find the Nanny standing outside on the landing, looking quite anxious.
“My mother-in-law, Mrs. Winchester, wishes to speak with you,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders in apology and went back into the nursery with her.
“Ah, there you are,” said Mrs. Winchester. “Do come over and stand in the light, so I can take a look at you.”
The Nanny went to the window, where light streamed in through the panel glass. She kept her arms by her sides.
“Pleased to m
eet you, Mrs. Winchester,” she said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Winchester. “It’s been a terrible blow to our family. And to this little one,” she said, looking down at the baby in her arms. “Tell me, Miss Murphy. You were working in Dublin before this?”
“Yes,” said the Nanny.
“And the family name?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know of them, Mrs. Winchester – they were just a small family, a small townhouse, like this.”
It was an insult. The Winchesters had never expected their only daughter to leave their country estate for a ‘small townhouse’.
“I see,” said Mrs. Winchester. “And what did they do? Their business?”
“The family traded in metals,” said the Nanny. “Before that was another family – I was with them for three years. They were the Colchesters. Mr. Colchester was a horse breeder.”
“Oh, Colchester,” said Mrs. Winchester. “Dublin, you say? I know of a horse breeder from Dublin.”
The Nanny swallowed and paused for a minute.
“They’ve since moved away, Mrs. Winchester – it must be different Colchesters.”
“And what are your thoughts on bottle-feeding, Miss Murphy?” said the grandmother. “Don’t you think this little one would be better with a wet nurse?”
William cleared his throat and said, “You know Anna’s views on that. It’s not for the Nanny to decide.”
“Yes, but I’d just like her opinion on it, William. To hear of her experience.”
“I think bottle-feeding is quite adequate as long as it’s carried out correctly,” answered the Nanny. “A wet nurse can be sometimes necessary, but you must make sure that the woman is clean and that she has enough milk and isn’t feeding half the town. I’ve seen that before. I bottle-fed one of the babies in my care some years back, and I believe the formula they’re selling now is of better quality. That baby thrived and I expect this one will too. As long as it’s done right, there is no need to worry.”
The Nanny At Number 43 Page 8
