On his way back to his digs, Joe thought about what Nora had told him. He trusted Nora. He knew she was being helpful. She wouldn’t send him on a wild goose chase. He would have been more wary if one of the “boys” had given him the information, especially as the Job involved pipe laying.
Joe was as aware as anyone else that his nickname, “The Pipe-layer”, was not for his proficiency as a pipe-layer: rather the opposite. His pipe-laying attempts were a joke at every building site he worked at. He wouldn’t have put it past his so-called mates to invent the job for a laugh at his expense. He could imagine the craic round the bar, about Joe, being out at Wimpey looking for a job as a pipe-layer. But, not Nora, although she liked the craic, she wouldn’t do that to him. The more he thought about it, though, the more he realised it would be a good job to get. There would be no pipe laying to do for a few weeks at least. The drains would have to be dug out first. He would get a few weeks work anyway. If only he could get the start.
Joe was familiar with the questions a man got asked when looking for a job on a building site. (What’s your name? Did you ever work for us before? Do you know anyone that works here? Etc.) Even in better times, unless they were very short of men or if you had a skill that they needed badly, it was very hard to get a job on a building site, unless you knew the ganger, or at least someone on the site that would recommend you. But in this case, the ganger, like the rest of the men travelled from Manchester and didn’t know anyone in the area.
Now many people attribute Joe’s nickname to how he got that job: in other words that he gave it to himself in order to boost his chances. But, those who knew him for longer knew that he had the name already. However he certainly used it to his advantage that day.
When the ganger, which he approached for the start, asked his name, Joe replied, “I’m best known around here as “The pipe-layer Joe”
That night in “Nora’s”, Joe was a different man. “You know, the only other question he asked me was could I start straight away.” He told them all.
“Well good on you Joe. And you didn’t tell a word of a lie”
Nora was pleased to see Joe back to his old self. He was enjoying being the centre of attention. His pride was restored.
“And as a pipe-layer I’m on a tanner an hour more than the others.”
“Well fair play to you. How are you getting on with the pipe-laying though?”
“Ah there’s none of that yet. There’s a lot to do before we are ready for any pipe laying. The ganger told me to muck in navvying with the others for the time being”.
“Well that’s no trouble to you”.
Joe was a good navvy. Some said he should have stuck with it, instead of chancing his hand at other things, which, it’s believed, he did after that job. It’s thought he never did do any pipe laying at Wimpey. Another job came up after a few weeks and Joe left Wimpey, his reputation intact. But he will always have the nickname “the pipe-layer” because of how he used it to get that job.
***
Mary entered the dining room and placed a loaf and a tub of margarine on the table. “Help yourselves to some bread.”
Henry was looking curiously at the empty place at the table.
“Where’s Paddy?”
“He was here earlier,” replied Mary. “He’s gone to try on his new suit.”
“He’ll be an awful smart man at the wedding.”
“I, he will.” Mary sounded less than convinced.
Jimmy thought it best to keep quiet as they grabbed a slice of bread each.
Waiting his turn for the margarine, Martin watched disapprovingly, as Henry, sparingly and meticulously, spread it on his bread.
“Are you putting any on, or are you just wiping the knife on the bread?”
Henry smiled, “It’s marvellous stuff this” he mused, “You’d butter some bread with it.”
“You would anyway, and butter did you say? You’re getting like the woman on the television that can’t tell the difference.”
“That bitch,” chipped in Mick “must never have butter in her lif...”
The sound of the kitchen door being closed abruptly silenced Mick, who was sat with his back to it. Mary had changed her mind about entering the dining room. Mick glanced warily over his shoulder. “I hope she didn’t think I was talking about herself,” he whispered nervously.
“Don’t worry” reassured Martin, who was sat opposite the kitchen door. “She only opened the door and closed it again.”
Mick looked relieved. Complaints about the food were avoided in Mary’s presence. And more recently, also when Paddy was there. However, it wouldn’t have taken a great deal of perception on, for them to suspect that there was less than total satisfaction with the food.
After a period of silent eating, and after apparently giving careful thought to the situation, Martin observed,
“Do you know? I think the grub has deteriorated since we got the television.”
“Maybe you’re right and all. But I suppose the telly has to be paid for somehow,” said Henry.
“Our bellies are paying for the telly”
“That’s poetry Martin,” said Henry “You know, it reminds me of Pa. Forkin in Kelly’s bar once.”
“Pa was a great man for giving the advice” he continued “whether it was called for or not. Although that time he only said what wanted saying. But, no one else would say it; not to the man’s face anyway. There was a great deal of concern about how Micky Durkan was treating his donkey. The poor animal was left to graze on top of Crockan hill, where there was hardly a blade of grass.”
“It was the fair day, and Pa called in to Kelly’s bar for a drink. When Pa got in Micky was already at the bar. In fact, Micky spent a great deal of his time there, which is why it was not just the donkey, but all of his farming that was being neglected. Pa didn’t get along with Micky anyway, and seemed to relish the opportunity to publicly put him down.
“There’s no grass for your ass on that hill,” he stated, loud enough for all in the pub to hear
Pa looked pleased with himself. He had everyone’s agreement in putting Micky in his place; or so he thought. But, he had underestimated Micky, who, although taken aback at first, then looked Pa in the eye and said,
" No, but look at the view he has.”
Mary, who had re-entered the room to clear the table, caught the end of the tale, and, unaware of the analogy with her food, joined in the laughter.
The laughter was cut short when a knock was heard on the outside door.
Mick, who was nearest, answered it and returned immediately.
“It’s someone for you Mary.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s a stranger.”
Mary went to the door. Then Martin, true to form, commented,
“It might be the butcher.”
Mary didn’t hear the remark about the butcher. However she couldn’t fail to hear the laughter that followed in spite of extreme efforts being made to keep it under control, even by Henry, whose loud laughter could normally be heard in the next street.
“I’m glad you’r
e enjoying yourselves.” Mary looked puzzled. But, to the relief of the men she didn’t pursue it. It wasn’t the laughter that puzzled her. “That was strange.” She said. “A man was at the door looking for Michael O’Malley. He was sure he lived here. He tried to give me a letter for him. I told him that I knew a Michael O’Malley, but that he doesn’t live here. I don’t think he believed me.”
“Did he ask you where he lives?” asked Martin.
“No. I didn’t give ‘em the chance. I shut the door on him. I didn’t like the look of him.”
“Good on you.” Henry agreed. “Tell ‘em nothing.”
Martin was still curious. “What did he look like?”
“A youngster, maybe twenty, but not from round here. Could be a Birmingham accent.”
Martin just nodded but made no reply. He then got up and left the room.
Mary started to clear the table, while the three men moved to seats nearer the fire, and from which they could view the television.
“There should be a news on now,” said Mick twiddling the knobs. With only one channel, the BBC, there would be no arguments about what to watch. Interruptions, however, rarely allowed much continuous viewing. Before they even got the news summary Paddy entered.
“Good evening all.”
They all turned round with a chorus of “evening Paddy.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with Martin,” said Paddy “He’s upstairs looking out the front window with a long face on him. I waved to him, but he looked straight past me, like I wasn’t there.
Mary shrugged. “He was all right here, a few minutes ago.”
“Ah well, I suppose he’s dreaming about Ireland again.” Then, changing the subject, Paddy asked, “Any tea left. I could eat a donkey.”
“I, I saved you some in the kitchen. You can have it in there.” Then Mary noticed the envelope in Paddy’s hand. “What’s the letter?”
“Oh, it’s for Michael O’Malley.” Paddy placed the letter on the table while he removed his coat. It just had the name on it but no address.
“You’re a postman now, are you?”
“Well, a man gave it to me outside, just now. He thought he lived here.”
“I knew that man didn’t believe me.” Mary was not too pleased. You should have let him deliver his own letter.”
“Sure he doesn’t know where he lives.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No, not exactly. But, he’s usually in the club on a Friday night. I’ll give him the letter then.
“Aren’t you the obliging man?” said Mary sarcastically.
Chapter 5. The wedding.
“Paddy will never settle down.” “He’s too fond of the drink.” Such opinions on Paddy were freely given. But, there was no telling Mary.
While not doubting her friend’s good intentions, no amount of warnings would sway her. Paddy was the one for her and she was determined to go ahead with the wedding.
It wasn’t that her friends didn’t like Paddy. They did. He was a popular man. He was always the life and soul of the party. They just couldn’t see him as the marrying type. He was too restless. “A long distance kiddy” He’d lived and worked all over England and Scotland. He said he was following the good-money-work, but few believed it was just that. He was seen as the roving type who couldn’t settle in any one place. He did, however keep coming back to Mary. He was Mary’s lodger, off and on, for many years. But, when work around there got slack on the buildings, as he put it, he always moved away. If it weren’t for the wedding, that time would be fast approaching again.
Paddy had enough of “all that moving around.” A steady job would suit him better then he said. Hard as that was to believe, after the initial shock, all his mates seemed to go along with it, and even gave him plenty of encouragement. “You're a wise man,” they said, and “you’re lucky to be getting such a fine woman.” In the weeks before the wedding Paddy loved it all.
For a drifter, Paddy had a lot of friends. When word got round that he was having “a bit of a do” in the Irish club on the Friday evening, the eve of his wedding, the response was enormous. On the night, the club was packed. Every Irishman for miles around was there and the craic was mighty, as was said. The music and singing was “making the rafters roar”. There were accordions and fiddles, banjos and tin whistles, Joe Frain on the mouth organ and Jimmy Flynn blowing on the comb. Paddy, himself, did a step dance and sang a song and everyone was so happy for him, as was demonstrated by the loud cheering at the end of the song, which was clearly not for the singing.
With all that was going on Paddy had forgotten about the letter in his pocket that he'd promised to give to Michael O’Malley, leaving Michael still unaware of its existence.
Michael stayed down stairs that night. While he enjoyed Irish music as much as the next man, wild, rowdy, parties were no longer his scenes. Even in the little taproom by the bar, it was still too crowded for his liking. Earlier, he was in two minds about whether to go to the club at all that night. However, when he expressed his fears to a committeeman he was assured that “it would be quiet enough in the tap-room.” Everyone would be upstairs in the main concert room, he was told, and the domino games, which he enjoyed, would go ahead, undisturbed, as usual. Although, not totally convinced, he nevertheless decided to go. It was more the thought that he would be letting his friends down that decided him: four of then played dominoes there every Friday night.
Not that night. The advice turned out to be totally wrong. Nowhere in the club was quiet that night. The taproom was as crowded as everywhere else, filled with the queue for the bar. Although there was a bar in the main concert room, the long queue up there, caused many to decide to try their luck at the downstairs bar, resulting in that bar being as busy as the one upstairs.
In the bustle and excitement no one took much notice when a man, being served at the bar, casually asked the busy barman if he knew a Michael O’Malley. The barman pointed Michael out. Then, again unnoticed by anyone, the man did no more than note who Michael was, before taking the two drinks he was served with into the other downstairs room.
After one drink Michael decided he’d had enough. He had no wish to queue for another one. In any case, his friends were nowhere to be seen, and the domino games would be out of the question. He should have taken Martin Prendergast’s advice, he thought. When they met, one evening, outside the little corner shop at the bottom of Michael’s street, Martin had strongly advised him not to go to the club that night. Martin had rightly predicted how crowded it would be and that the domino games would be impossible. It was nice of Martin to talk to him, he thought, although he hardly knew him. Next time he would listen to him better.
As Michael entered the ginnel, he thought of Martin’s other advice. Martin had warned him against using the ginnel, especially in the dark. But, it was a quiet area and Michael saw no danger. He’d used the shortcut many times. Also, his arthritis had being playing up lately and he didn’t wish to walk for longer than was necessary. He never suspected that he was being followed.
***
Paddy was there early to welcome all and again was relishing the compliments. He couldn’t get enough of being told what a wise thing it was he was doi
ng and what a fine woman Mary was. He was feeling a lucky man.
A few there, though, didn’t think Paddy so lucky. Jimmy McCarthy and a few of the younger lads, who were sat at a table near the door, saw the whole thing as a joke, and were there just for the craic. They all knew Mary: they had either previously lodged there or had visited the lodging house at some time. As a landlady they had few complaints about her: for what she charged, most felt, she did a good Job. However the Mary they knew, fat, the wrong side of forty, with greying and seemingly always uncombed hair, was difficult to picture as a bride.
Some of their remarks, which were far from complimentary to the bride and groom to be, were causing Henry Kelly much concern. Henry was to be best man next day and had the responsibility of looking after Paddy. Mary had made him promise to keep Paddy out of trouble as well as making sure he got home safely. Henry took his responsibilities very seriously. While Paddy was totally oblivious to any disparaging voices, Henry was, maybe a little over sensitive to some of the comments coming from Jimmy’s table.
When the accordion player started on the tune of Mary The Rose of Tralee, a fine song, but one that, at that time, was heard so often, many were weary of it, Jimmy was heard to groan, “They’re putting Mary through it again.” On hearing the mention of “Mary” Henry rushed over and delivered a firm warning to Jimmy. Under Henry’s wary eye there was no more trouble from that table for the rest of the evening.
It was towards the end of the evening that Henry’s real problems arose. All evening Paddy’s friends were buying him drinks, and it wasn’t in Paddy’s nature to refuse such generosity. At the end of the evening, therefore, Paddy’s legs seemed to turn to rubber, leaving Henry with the problem of getting him safely to the lodging house. The Journey was only a few hundred yards, but it did involve crossing a main road.
Henry, although not too steady himself, struggled to keep Paddy upright and moving. His efforts were not helped by the comments from Jimmy and a couple of his mates, who were following behind. They were finding it all very funny, even when disaster nearly struck. As they approached the main road, Henry, momentarily distracted, released his grip on Paddy, who then staggered across the road on his own. A terrified Henry, rushed, grabbed Paddy and in the nick of time saved him from being run over by a bus.
“We’re lucky he wasn’t killed stone dead then,” screamed Henry at his tormentors, who he blamed for distracting him.
Jimmy, much the worse for drink himself, didn't care. “He might be better off than doing what he’s doing tomorrow,” he slurred.