by Maeve Binchy
They were all there.
‘There was a bit of commotion at work, I got delayed,’ he said.
‘Ah, you would all right,’ said the Pelican generously. He was introduced to Daff and John, and Ned and Crutch Casey.
‘What’s your real name?’ he asked the man with the twisted leg.
‘Crutch,’ the man said, surprised to be asked.
They each bought him a pint and they raised their glasses solemnly and said Happy Birthday at each round. By the fourth round he was feeling very wretched. He had never drunk more than three pints in Ryan’s and never more than two anywhere else. Ryan’s led you to be daring because even if you fell down you got home on all fours without too much difficulty.
Daff was the man like a wrestler. Kev wondered why he was called that but he decided it might not be wise. Daff bought the last drink and handed Kev an envelope.
‘We were sorry to see a culchie all on his own with no-one to wish him a happy birthday, so that’s a small present from Pelican, Crutch, John, Ned and me.’ He smiled as if he were a foolish, generous uncle dying for the nephew to open the electric train set and begin to call out with excitement.
Kev politely opened the envelope and saw a bundle of blue twenty pound notes. The room went backwards and forwards and began to move slowly around to the left. He steadied himself on the bar stool.
‘I couldn’t take this, sure you don’t know me at all.’
‘And you don’t know us,’ Daff beamed.
‘Which is as it should be,’ the Pelican said approvingly.
‘But I’d not know you, without . . . without this, you know.’
He looked at the envelope as if it contained explosives. There were at least six notes, maybe more. He didn’t want to count them.
‘Ah but this is better, this MARKS the day for all of us, why don’t we meet here every week around this time, and if you’ve that invested properly then you could buy us a drink, and slowly we could sort of GET to know each other.’
Kev’s mouth felt full of lemon juice.
‘Well I’d love to . . . sort of keep in touch with you all . . . but, honestly, this is too much. Like, I mean, I’d feel bad.’
‘Not at all, you wouldn’t,’ smiled the Pelican and they were gone.
Every Tuesday since he had met them; sometimes it was just a drink. Sometimes it was more. Once it had been a driving job. He would never forget it to his dying day. They went into a new block of flats and carefully unrolled the brand new stair carpet. They had heard that the fitting men were coming that afternoon so they had anticipated the visit by removing every scrap of it. The timing had been of the essence on that one. The expensive wool carpet had arrived that morning; there was only a four-hour period when it could be removed, and that meant watching the flats very carefully in case any untoward enquiries were made. It was all completely successful, of course, like all their enterprises seemed to be. Kev had taken a day off work for the carpet heist but the carpet heist had taken years off his life. He felt as if he had been put down on the street and the whole crowd coming out of Moran Park had walked over him. He couldn’t understand how they remained so untouched. Crutch Casey told of horses that had fallen at the last fence. Ned and John were more dog people, they talked of evil minded and corrupt greyhounds who KNEW how to slow down through some instinct. The Pelican told long tales full of people that nobody knew, and Daff seemed to say nothing much but he was as relaxed as a man coming out after a swim about to light his pipe on the beach on a sunny day.
They never told him he HAD to join in, and they didn’t ask him so much that he felt he should run away to America to escape them. Often he didn’t have to do anything except what they called ‘resorting’. That might mean wrapping a whole load of Waterford Glass which arrived from a hotel before it got time to get out of its boxes, into different kinds of containers. Each glass to be held carefully and sorted according to type, wrapped in purple tissue paper in gift boxes of six. He became quite an authority on the various designs, or suites as they were called, and decided that the Colleen Suite was his favourite; and that when he got married he would have two dozen Colleen brandy glasses and use them around the house as ordinary everyday glasses, or in the bathroom for his toothbrush. Then he remembered what he was doing and the fantasy would disappear. He would look around the garage and keep parcelling in the nice anonymous gift boxes. He never knew where they went, and what happened to them. He never asked. Not once. That’s why they liked him, that’s why they trusted him utterly. From that very first day in the loading area they thought he was one of their own, and it was too late now to tell them that he wasn’t. The longer it went on, the more ludicrous it would be trying to get out.
On calmer days Kev asked himself what was so terrible. They never took from individuals, they didn’t do people’s houses and flats: it was companies who had to replace miles of red wool carpet, boxes of prestigious glassware, rooms full of sanitary fittings. They never did over old women, young couples, they never carried a weapon, not even a cosh. In many ways they weren’t bad fellows at all. Of course they never actually went out to work in a normal way, and they did lie to people, with their clipboards and their air of being perfectly legitimate. And people did get into trouble after they’d visited places, like poor old Mr Daly who’d been hauled in by everyone and though it was never said, the thought had been in the air that he might be getting too old for the job. And they stole. They stole things almost every week and by no standards could that be a thing that Kev Kennedy from Rathdoon wanted to be in. Or worse, caught in. It was unthinkable. They still talked about that young fellow who was a cousin of the Fitzgeralds and worked in their shop for a bit; he was given three years for doing a post office in Cork. The whole of Rathdoon had buzzed with it for months and Mrs Fitzgerald, Tom’s mother, had said she hoped everyone realised that he wasn’t a first cousin, he was a very far out one, and they had tried to give him a start and look at the thanks they got. Could you imagine what old Da would have to go through? And all Red’s hopes of getting some gorgeous wife would go for their tea, and poor Bart was so decent and helpful, wouldn’t it be a shame on him for ever?
But how did you get out? He couldn’t live in a city that contained the Pelican and Daff and Crutch Casey if they thought he had ratted on them. There was no point trying to pretend that he had left town or anything. They knew everything: it was their business to know things, to know when deliveries were expected, when watchmen went for their coffee, when regular porters were on holidays, when managers were young and nervous, when shops were too busy to notice their furniture being loaded into private vans. They knew where Kev lived and worked; he wouldn’t dream of lying to them.
But he got out of weekend work. That’s when they did some of their bigger jobs, and he wanted to be well away from it. He told them vaguely that he had to go out of town. He had been going home that very first weekend after they met him and so it had seemed a natural continuation, not a new pattern of behaviour. He didn’t say it was Rathdoon, he didn’t say it was home, but they knew he wasn’t lying when he was saying that he went out of town for weekends, Crutch Casey had said goodnight to him one Sunday night outside the house where he had a room, and Kev knew that it was just a routine inspection. He had been cleared now, even the Pelican whom he had met by accident just on the corner knew that he was leaving Dublin for the weekend – he didn’t even bother to check.
But how could he get out of working for them midweek? Some of the jobs were getting bigger and Kev was getting tenser. Once or twice Daff had asked him not to be so jumpy – that he was like some actor playing a nervous crook in an old black and white B movie. It was fine for Daff who didn’t have a nerve in his body. Simply fine for him. Others didn’t find it so easy. The very sight of a guard was enough to weaken Kev’s legs, even the shadow of anyone fairly big was enough to make him jump. Oddly enough it hadn’t made him feel guilty about religion: he went to Mass and at Christmas and Easter to commun
ion; he knew that God knew that there wasn’t much Sin involved. No Grievous Bodily Harm or anything. But he had never been much of a one for talking to God individually like you were meant to: he didn’t feel like putting the question personally. And there was nobody else really BUT God when all was said and done because everyone else would have a very strong view one way or the other, and mainly the other. Like get out of that gang at a rate of knots, Kev Kennedy, and stop acting the eejit.
Mikey’s poor kind face was there a few inches from him, Mikey Burns who’d be the kind of bank porter that would get shot in a raid, certainly not like Kev, the kind of security man who had become best buddies with the gang that had ripped off all the fittings from the place he worked. Mikey Burns sleeping with a little smile dreaming about something, jokes with glasses of water and coins maybe, and there was he, Kev, who had driven get-away vans and done watch duty and helped to reparcel stolen goods. Kev felt alien as he looked out at the darkening countryside. Lonely and guilty as hell.
His father told him after the news that Red had notions about a farmer’s daughter and was going to bring her to tea during the weekend no less, and they were all to keep their shoes on, talk nicely and put butter on a plate and the milk in a jug. He said that he thought Bart might as well join the Franciscans and put on sandals and carry a begging bowl for all the good he was ever going to do with his life and his share of the business. When he wasn’t digging up Mrs Hickey’s foxgloves and hemlocks or whatever it was she grew he was helping Mrs Ryan in the pub to stand on her own two shaky legs and serving the customers from behind the bar and not a penny piece was he getting from either of them. He was surprised that Bart hadn’t gone into Fitzgerald’s shop and said that if they’d like someone to stand there and serve for a few days a week without wages he’d be happy to do it. Kev didn’t know what to say to this. He nibbled a slice of cake and thought about the difference between people. There was Daff who had a nice big open face like Bart, organising the transfer of twenty microwave ovens from one warehouse to another by a deceptively simple scheme which involved Ned who was the most forgettable of them all going up with a sheaf of papers, an air of bewilderment and an instruction that they were apparently to go back to have something checked. And there was Bart Kennedy who had a big open face like Daff digging Judy Hickey’s garden for her and helping Celia’s mother to stay upright in Ryan’s. God, what different worlds he moved in; Kev thought with a shudder at the danger of it all. ‘Are you not going down to the pub?’ his father asked.
‘No, I’m tired after the week, and the long journey, I’ll just go up and lie on my bed,’ he said.
His father shook his head: ‘I really wish I knew what brings you home, you do so little when you arrive, and you’ve lost your interest in football entirely. You could have been a good footballer if you’d put your mind to it.’
‘No, I was never any good. You only say that because you wanted a son a county footballer, I’m no good.’
‘Well what does bring you back here, what are you running from . . . ?’ He hadn’t finished but the cup was in pieces on the floor and Kev’s face was snow white.
‘Running, what do you mean?’
‘I mean is it the violence up there or the dirt, or those blackguards roaming in tribes or what? Haven’t you good wages and you’re always very generous giving me the few quid here . . . but a young man of your age, you should be up to all kinds of divilment and diversions, shouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t know, Da, I don’t think I was ever much good at anything, football, divilment, anything.’ He sounded very glum.
‘Haven’t you got a fine job up in one of the finest buildings in the land, and you earn your own living which is more than those two boyos there – oh they’re a great pair I have on my hands. One a sort of Martin de Porres going round the place giving half his cloak to everyone he meets, one a dandy who has the bright red hair nearly combed off his scalp and the mirrors nearly cracked in bits staring into them. You’re the best of them, Kev, don’t be running yourself down.’
Kev Kennedy went up to bed without a word, and he lay there as the sounds of Rathdoon which were not very loud went past his window, a small window over the shop, which looked out on the main street.
Red’s girl was coming the very next day it turned out, so they all had to do a spring clean on the back room. There were to be cups instead of mugs, a clean cloth was spread and bread was cut on a tray and then put onto a plate to avoid all the crumbs. They took ham and tomatoes from the shop, a bottle of salad cream and Red hardboiled three eggs.
‘This is a feast, she’ll marry you immediately,’ Bart said when he saw Red looking speculatively at some of the frozen cakes in the cold food section.
‘Quit laughing and keep looking round the room to see what it would look like to a new eye.’ Red had it bad this time. Her name was Majella and she was an only child, she was used to much greater style than the three Kennedy brothers and their father could provide even if they had been trying seriously. But none of them except Red was making much of an effort: their father wanted to be in his shop, Bart wanted to get over to Judy Hickey and Kev wanted to go off down by the river where he felt nice and quiet and miles from all that was happening at this very moment to microwave ovens in a warehouse in Dublin.
Majella was arriving at five o’clock: her father would give her a lift, but he wouldn’t call in, it was much too early for that yet. They did a deal, the brothers. Bart and Kev agreed to wear proper ties and jackets and have polished shoes. Red agreed to go over to Judy Hickey’s and put in two hours because she needed it this weekend particularly and because it would keep him calm. There would be no bad language, eating with fingers and picking of teeth, but in return Red would not embarrass them by giving moon faced sick calf impersonations, not would he ask them to delight Majella with stories of their exotic lives. When the bell rang to say that somebody had come into the shop they would go in order of seniority. Da first, then Bart, then Kev, then Da and so on. Red was not to abandon them to talk to Majella on their own.
She was a lovely big girl with no nonsense in her and by the time they had sat her down she was like part of the family. She said they must be great fellows altogether to have the butter on the plate and the milk not in a bottle but in a jug. Whenever she went over to her cousin’s place they were all putting their dirty knives into the butter at once, they needed a woman to civilise them. Red began to look like a sick calf when she talked of the civilising influence of a woman and he had to be kicked until he dropped it again. Majella said she was going to do the washing up and they could all dry, and seeing out of the corner of her eye that the dishcloths were not all they might be she called to Red to bring a packet of J-cloths out of the shop.
‘Isn’t it paradise to be here!’ she said with a big smile at them all. ‘Who could want anything better than a shop right off your own living room?’
They had dried up in no time; the big room looked better somehow than it had done for years. Majella said that maybe she and Red might go for a bit of a tour round Rathdoon now and get out of everyone’s way. By half past six she had a blushing delighted Red firmly by the arm and was linking him on her own little lap of honour around the community she had decided to join.
‘Oh there’s no escape there, that knot will be tied, poor Red.’ Bart laughed good-naturedly about the fate that could well be happening to his brother.
‘Will you stop that nonsense: poor Red, my hat! Wouldn’t a girl have to be half mad or have the courage of a lion to marry any one of the three of you.’ He sounded very pessimistic indeed.
‘Would you say she IS mad?’ Kev asked interestedly. ‘She was a very nice class of a girl I thought.’
‘Of course she’s nice, she’s far too good for him: the thing is will she realise it in time?’ Bart and Kev exchanged glances. Their father seemed to be torn between the delight of having the lovely laughing Majella around the place and the strictly honest course of action which was
to warn the girl that his son was a bad bargain.
‘Let her work it out for herself maybe?’ Bart suggested and his father looked relieved.
Bart had a lot of sense, Kev realised, suddenly. He wasn’t just a do-gooder and a big innocent. But he was the other side of the tracks now, he wasn’t in the Underworld like Kev was, there could be no talking to him about the problem.
‘Would you fancy an early pint down in Ryan’s before the mob gets in there?’ Bart said to him. Kev was pleased.
‘That’d be the way to do it,’ he said sagely. Their father had gone back to the shop and was twiddling the dial for the news.
They walked down the road. It was quiet – most people were in at their tea; the sound of the half past six news that their father was listening to back in the shop came from several windows. Down past Billy Burns’ chip shop. Billy wasn’t there today, Mikey and that bright little Treasa who worked there, no sign of the new girl Eileen, well she had always looked too good to spend her day lifting pieces of cod or wings of chicken out of a deep fryer in Rathdoon. They came to the bridge. Bart leaned over and looked at the river. They used to race sticks under the bridge here when they were kids, and there were always so many arguments about whose stick had won Bart invented a system of tying different coloured threads on to each one. It seemed very long ago.
‘What’s eating you?’ Bart asked.
‘I don’t know what you mean?’
‘I’m not the world’s brainiest man but I’m not blind either. Tell me, Kev. Can’t you? It can’t be any worse when you’ve told me. It might even be a bit better. Like I’m not going to be saying aren’t you an eejit or blame you or anything, but there’s something terrible wrong up in Dublin, isn’t there?’
