Rainbow's End (49 page)

The streets were unlikely to appeal to his twin as somewhere to find work, however, Seamus realised. He would have gone to the docks, or the tram depot, or to one of Dublin’s many markets. Twins, Seamus reflected sourly, are supposed to be able to read each other’s minds – well, he could not imagine where he would find Garvan, and if his brother could read his, Seamus’s, mind he would stay well out of the way for a while. Still. He would try the quays first.

As he made his way through the crowded market stalls on Francis Street, Seamus kept a weather eye cocked for Garvan. He had little doubt that if his twin was here, discussing the possibility of casual work with one of the stall-holders, he would see him. Twins could not walk close by each other and not be aware of the other’s presence, Seamus knew from experience. But he traversed the length of the street without a glimpse of the familiar figure, so continued, with a sigh, towards the quays.

Although he believed it was chiefly perversity which had caused Garvan to leave the huge, family-run store on O’Connell Street where they worked mostly as delivery boys but also as ‘help’ in the brand-new bicycle department, he was uneasily aware that he had kept one important factor from his mother. Trixie Reilly. The only child of Mr Thomais Reilly, she was a year younger than the twins and worked in the store as well, learning the business, her father frequently told anyone interested. He had no sons and intended that Trixie – whose real name was Beatrix – should take over the running of the store when he grew too old to manage it himself. And Trixie and Seamus had taken one look at each other and decided that they wanted to be friends. They had, Seamus thought now, a similar sense of humour, they both enjoyed bike rides, the cinema, dancing . . . and to Seamus’s astonished pleasure Mr Reilly had raised no objection to his beloved only daughter beginning to go about with an errand boy. ‘It’s good that you’ve a friend, as other girls have,’ he had told Trixie. ‘So long as you behave yourself and keep things on a friendly footing . . .’

He wouldn’t have said the same to Garvan, Seamus knew. Garvan tended to treat girls in a cavalier fashion, which was odd when Seamus remembered how guilt-ridden and miserable Garvan had been for many months after Maggie’s death.

He had told Seamus once that, had it not been for him, Maggie would still be alive. ‘Whose idea was it to pretend to run away, so Mammy would take her back?’ he had demanded. ‘Mine, of course. And who heard her call, that day in the street, but pretended not to? Me. So she ran into the road to get my attention . . . straight under that bloody ‘bus.’

‘But you weren’t to know . . . and Maggie wouldn’t hold it against you,’ Seamus had said gently. ‘She’s forgiven you long since.’

‘Aye; ’tis meself I can’t forgive,’ Garvan said simply. ‘She’s everywhere in Dublin, Shay. Everywhere we go, she took us; everyone we know, she knew too. I can’t forget her.’

‘Nor me,’ Seamus had said at once. ‘Nor want, Garv.’

So it was partly for this reason that he had stuck closer than a corn plaster to his brother, had left jobs when his twin did, had sometimes done two people’s work in order to hide the fact that Garvan had sloped off for a day’s fishing, or a walk round Phoenix Park, rather than work.

But no more. Maggie had been dead over three years and although Garvan did take a girl out from time to time there was no disguising that he treated them pretty badly, one way and another. Seamus suspected that his twin made demands on girls which they were not prepared to meet and dropped them with insulting suddenness. He had tried telling Garvan that Maggie, of all people, would disapprove of this behaviour, but it seemed to cut no ice. ‘You can’t compare them little tarts wit’ our Maggie,’ Garvan had said. And when Seamus asked him to make up a foursome with some decent friend of Trixie’s he refused, not bothering to invent an excuse or a previous engagement, merely saying that he did not want to go. ‘I’ve got better t’ings to me wit’ me life than to spend it dancin’ attendance on some ould gorl,’ he had said sullenly, when Seamus had tried to persuade him to come along. ‘I can’t understand you, Shay. It’s not as if she was even pretty, like Bridie McShay or Edie Abel.’

‘I t’ink she’s prettier than either of ’em,’ Seamus had said honestly. ‘They’re . . . they’re kind o’ flashy, Garv. Trixie’s a dote.’

‘She’s ginger,’ Garvan muttered. ‘Spotty, an’ all. Just because she’s the boss’s daughter . . .’

It had been the cause of their first serious fight and though, after suffering a couple of days of his twin’s icy silence, Garvan had had the grace to apologise, to admit that Trixie was ‘all right really, if you didn’t mind the gingery look’, it still hung between them in a sense. Seamus knew that Garvan was jealous of his affection for Trixie, that his twin sensed the parting of their ways which would come as they grew older and resented it, but he had done his best to ease the situation by only seeing Trixie once or twice a week and making a habit of always asking Garvan along, or meeting him after their date.

He had thought he was successful, had believed that Garvan was becoming reconciled to Trixie, red hair and all, but now he doubted it. Garvan had decided to play his trump card, to separate his twin from an alliance of which he did not approve, and had thrown in the job.

Always, before, the twins had stayed together at work, never approaching a possible employer singly, but always as a pair. And now Garvan must be fairly sure that, though Seamus would grumble, he would do the same. Well, he had told him and told him that he wouldn’t, but Garvan had gone anyway. Now was the time to reiterate his remarks and show Garvan that he was on his own . . . unless he backed down, of course, went round to Mr Reilly’s beautiful house in Phoenix Park and said it had all been a mistake, that he’d spoken rashly and out of turn and that he would be grateful for his job back, please.

Seamus knew, of course, that Mr Reilly was highly unlikely to know that Garvan had quit, though he would be told next morning when he arrived for work, for their boss never missed appearing at the store at least once a day. But if Garvan went round tonight . . .

It was odd how he found himself in Phoenix Park, almost as though he believed that Garvan would be hovering outside the Reilly house, but arrive there he did. And the first person he saw as he approached the Wellington Monument was his twin, leaning against the plinth of the statue and shying bits of gravel at a flock of pigeons who were arguing over someone’s cast-down sandwiches.

Garvan pretended not to see him, but Seamus knew better and went and leaned too, close by his twin. He waited a moment without speaking, then said gruffly: ‘Well, you’ve done it now, Garv. What’ll you do? If you was to change your mind, sure an’ isn’t Mr Reilly the best of fellers? He’d not hold it against ye, he’d speak to Mr Mulvaney . . .’

Garvan straightened up and the two brothers began to stroll along the path together.

‘I don’t want me job back,’ Garvan said. ‘Haven’t you an’ me done all right before, now? Christmas is comin’, there’ll be jobs a-plenty standin’ the markets, sellin’ door to door, fetchin’ spuds in from the country an’ sellin’ them to the fancy restaurants on O’Connell Street. ‘Sides, you don’t suppose the ould feller ’ud keep us on once the troops get back, d’ye? We’ll be out on our arses faster’n greased lightning once there’s older men to tek our place.’

‘That’s a fool remark, Garv,’ Seamus said quietly. ‘Men don’t want work as errand boys nor counter hands and besides, Mr Reilly isn’t like that. Our jobs are safe an’ you know it.’

‘Oh, safe,’ Garvan said scoffingly, abruptly changing tack. ‘Who cares for that? We’ve never gone for safety, you an’ me, Shay. Why, comin’ up to Christmas we’ll be workin’ all hours, makin’ twice the money we could wit’ old Reilly. Use your loaf, ould Shay.’

‘I am, because Christmas lasts a few weeks, not the whole year. What’ll you do in January, eh? When the snow comes, an’ the markets shrink, an’ folk stay at home o’ nights?’

‘Move on. Find somethin’ else,’ Garvan said easily. ‘I’ve a fancy to leave Dublin for a few months longer. What we need is a change of scene, Shay. Why don’t we go to Limerick? Or Belfast? Or why not London? There’s navvyin’ work over the water which would keep us outdoors for months an’ months, an’ plenty of money an’ they say the wimmin’s friendly.’

‘I told you, Garv, that I’d not leave the store, an’ I meaned every word of it,’ Seamus interrupted. ‘An’ I’m sweet on Trixie an’ she on me, as well you know. Is it likely that I’d tek off for foreign parts an’ t’row away the first dacint opportunity I’ve ever had of a proper job?’

‘But Shay, it won’t be the same wit’out me, you know it. We’ve always been together, so we have, from the day we was born. You’ll not stay stuck in the store wit’ me on the road, makin’ money hand o’er fist, enjoyin’ a free life again.’

‘I’m stayin’ in me dacint job, and I’m stayin’ wit’ me girl,’ Seamus said firmly. ‘Mebbe it’s for the best, Garv. Mebbe we’d do best apart.’

Garvan stared at him, his eyes gradually hardening, then shrugged and turned away with an elaborate unconcern which did not fool Seamus for a moment. ‘Right. You stay an’ see where it gets you,’ he said. ‘Just because the boss’s daughter likes the look o’ you, an’ you’re prepared to put up wit’ the foxy, gingery crittur, that doesn’t mean I have to go along wit’ you. I’m out an’ I’m stayin’ out.’

‘Right. Well, are ye comin’ home now, then? I won’t quarrel wit’ you, Garv, though you’re clearly doin’ your best to make me, but you’d best stop insultin’ Trixie, me fine boyo, or I’ll see you regret it,’ Seamus said, with a calmness he did not feel. ‘Come on home, now. Mammy’ll have our teas on the table and nothin’ meks her crosser than our lettin’ good food spoil.’

‘I’m not coming in till later,’ Garvan said, refusing the olive branch. ‘I’ve got to find me a job afore I face the ould wan.’

‘Wise,’ Seamus said, giving his twin a half-grin. ‘Mammy worries about money wit’ Ticky goin’ through a pair o’ trousers a week, an’ Liam still away, to say nothin’ of Kenny married an’ livin’ up to Goldenbridge. Still, she’ll be glad that mine’ll keep comin’ in, regardless.’

The two boys slowed their walk. They had reached the dog pond and Seamus stooped and picked up a pebble, chucking it into the glistening water.

‘Aye, you’ll be mammy’s darlin’ now,’ Garvan said sneeringly. ‘But wait’ll I start showerin’ her wit’ me earnin’s, it’ll be a different story then. An’ when she hears about Trixie, an’ knows why you’re stayin’ on at the store.’

‘Leave it, Garv, or I’ll chuck you into the bleedin’ pond,’ Seamus said unwisely and in two moments the pair of them were fighting like a couple of mongrel dogs, growling and battering as though they were sworn enemies instead of two brothers who had rarely, until now, had a bad word for one another.

After ten minutes, however, they parted as if by common consent and stood, breathless, panting, both with an incipient black eye and Seamus with a shirt torn from collar to tail, eyeing one another measuringly.

‘No point in fighting, we’re too evenly matched and we know each other’s minds too well,’ Garvan said at length. ‘I t’ink you’re wrong an’ you t’ink I am, but we’d best agree to differ or we’ll be needin’ crutches.’

‘True. See you later then, Garv,’ Seamus said, turning away.

But Garvan kept pace alongside him. ‘You’ll be passin’ the market so we might as well go along that far together,’ he said almost amicably. ‘Besides, you might see sense an’ change your mind!’

Seamus only laughed and the two of them set out towards Parkgate Street and the river, ignoring their bruises and talking, not about their working future, but about a film being shown at the Tivoli on Francis Street, which they had both wanted to see. When they reached Thomas Street they parted and Seamus hurried through the dark streets thinking hopefully of his dinner.

At home once more, Mrs Nolan did not comment on Seamus’s bruises, though she screeched at the sight of his shirt. ‘I hope your brother intends to mend that slit,’ she said aggrievedly as Seamus hung his coat on the rack. ‘Did ye win, son? Is he goin’ to knuckle down to work at Reilly’s after all?’

But she did not look surprised when Seamus shook his head.

‘No, Mammy. We’ve agreed it might be best if we were parted for a bit durin’ workin’ hours at any rate. Mebbe this change is no bad t’ing. He’s restless, is Garvan, an’ mebbe I’m not.’

‘Hm,’ Mrs Nolan said. She was draining potatoes into a bowl and finished her task before turning to her son. ‘I never got the chance to tell you earlier, but I’ve had a bit of a blow meself, so I have. Liam’s writ that he’s courtin’ an English gorl, so he’s not comin’ home right off. He’s goin’ back to Liverpool to meet the gorl’s fambly.’

Seamus whistled. ‘An English gorl! After all the troubles, what’s he thinkin’ of?’

‘She’ll be first-generation English – her name’s Ellen Docherty – but how he thinks he can support a wife.’

Seamus shrugged. ‘That’s Liam’s business, so it is, an’ now where’s me dinner? I’m starved, so I am. Oh, and Garv’s job-huntin’, but he’ll be along later.’

Chapter Fourteen

March 1919

It was the day before Ellen’s arrival home and Ada was making fruit loaves for the party. The war was over and her factory was returning to peacetime production, so she was back at the shop, but still earning reasonably good money. There was, nevertheless, a good deal of hardship, both for the men returning from abroad and for those who were no longer needed in their once well-paid jobs. Food was still rationed and as soldiers returned the need to house them became more and more desperate. Beggars, many in the tattered remains of military uniform, were becoming commonplace, and the bright optimism which had greeted Armistice Day was beginning to dissipate as the ’flu epidemic increased and the shortages did not improve.

But the Dochertys, with the elder members still working, were better off than most, and now, at the table, Deirdre was peering over Sammy’s shoulder as he did his arithmetic homework and Toby, now a sturdy ten-year-old, was making paper chains out of scrap paper, for they intended to decorate the parlour with anything bright they could lay hands on.