LatinosUSA

“May God forgive me,” Mam would say, making the sign of the cross, “but the aul dog is the best of them!” She genuinely had a soft spot for our neighbour’s black collie, and would usually have a few morsels to hand whenever the scrawny creature would slink foraging to our yard at twilight.

            Even to a seven-year-old, the Dalys were a strange lot. I knew Mikey best, partly because we were school classmates, but mostly because we were both middle children, wedged in between double pairs of sisters. Mikey’s dad, Tom Pa, worked in England, but would return home each Christmas and stay until the money had run out – usually in the early days of January. He was a big man: tall and broad, with arms like thighs and hands like shovels. His physical strength was legendary. I’d grown up listening to the phrase: Tom Pa is as good as any two men – until he takes a drink…

            Tom Pa would take a drink, just as soon as he’d brought his suitcase across from the station to The Railway Bar. Indeed, Tom Pa featured more prominently in my early Christmas Eves than any swaddled infant or old man in a red suit. Tom Pa considered our house a compulsory last stop between pub closing time and his annual return to home and family – at the end of the lane beyond our gate. Roused from sleep by his raucous singing, I would lie awake, willing him to leave before Santa’s arrival. Everybody knew Santy didn’t always call to the Daly children, and I would have recurring nightmares about our house being added to the worst blacklist of all.

            Infants did feature in Tom Pa’s visits home; it seemed there was a new one to meet every year, except on the two occasions when he was greeted by twins. Bridge, his wife, was illiterate and, while it was said that Tom Pa wasn’t the worst when it came sending money home, it was generally believed that the couple had little or no communication between Christmases.

            “May God forgive me, but that óinseach isn’t fit to rear puisíns!” Mam would sigh whenever the mother of fourteen was mentioned. Yet, she would make every effort to disguise the holes that regularly appeared in our potato pit, haystack or turf shed. Dad knew, and Mam knew that he knew, but it didn’t seem to matter as long as neither of them mentioned it.

            Tommy and Patsy, the two eldest Dalys, had the dark brooding stamp of their father: they were strongly built, sallow-skinned and brown-eyed, with unruly mops of dark curly hair. I was still quite young when I first overheard whispers concerning the paternity of some of Bridge’s other children. While it could be conceded that the twin girls bore a passing resemblance to Tom Pa, the elder twins – blonde, blue-eyed boys – were strongly rumoured to be the luck-pennies from a deal Bridge had struck with a smooth-talking calf buyer from the midlands.

            As my teens approached it occurred to me that the accepted nine month gestation period hadn’t apply to all of Bridge’s pregnancies, and I found myself looking at her brood in a whole new light. Before long, I had reached some conclusions regarding the younger Daly boys, but some of the girls were proving more difficult to assess. Strangely, it was a convent girl’s secondary school uniform that led to my initial breakthrough.

            I was at an age when girls had begun to interest me in a totally new way, and Carol Moore – the vet’s daughter – was increasingly monopolising my thoughts.

            “Go for it,” Mikey encouraged, when I told him of my crush.

            “How?” I urged, both eager and willing to defer to his greater knowledge of the ways of the world.

            “Wait ‘til she’s on her own, and then just come straight out and tell her you fancy her. The worst she can say is no…” Mikey could make things sound so simple.

            Opportunity knocked that very evening, in the public library in town. Even before I’d surrendered my overdue books, I was sure I caught a glimpse of Carol, in her green convent uniform, browsing through the titles in the romantic fiction section. Great, I thought, shivering with anticipation. She’s into love stories. I took a furtive glance around, fearful that prying eyes might witness my moment of rejection. I took a deep breath and cat-footed towards the waves of burnished mahogany hair which rested on the collar of her pristine white blouse.

            “My sister reads those…”I whispered. She spun to face me, her hazel eyes narrowing to mere slits; her luscious lips thinning to a scornful sneer.

            “Your sisters are tick!” she hissed, spinning on her heel and hastening into the next aisle. Rooted to the spot, I stood agape, but in shock rather than disappointment. The mahogany hair, hazel eyes and full red lips were not those of Carol Moore, but of Katie Daly, Mikey’s younger sister, whom I knew long before she ever accompanied him to our house to borrow the bath. A new school uniform, even if only for a day or two of her life, was the leveller between the impoverished and the privileged.

            For weeks afterwards Mickey hounded me on the subject of Carol Moore, even to the extent of swearing, ‘pon his soul, that my advances would not only be tolerated but welcomed. I never did tell Mikey what had doused my flame for Carol Moore; how could I?

            One of my earliest memories is of the twin boys asking to borrow Dad’s hammer. As Dad was a firm believer in a place for everything and everything in its place, Mam was truly mystified when she failed to locate the requested item in its customary position. The boys left empty-handed, and all would have been well had Mam not mentioned the incident to Dad as he sat down to supper that evening.

            “The hammer?”he spluttered, “They borrowed it over a week ago; don’t tell me they’ve lost that – as well!” His food forgotten, he set off towards Daly’s at a lively clip, returning about ten minutes later, his trophy held aloft in his muddied fist.

            “You didn’t do anything foolish; did you?”Mam gasped. Dad shook his head, his grey eyes sparking with self-righteous indignation.

            “I didn’t even have to go as far as the house; ‘twas exactly where they’d dropped it, lying in the muck at the mouth of the lane. It’s no wonder they never have anything of their own: they’re walking down on good money – my money!”

            He paused for a moment, as though arranging the words that would become his mantra for the next two decades.

            “Never again; never again, are they to get anything from this house – I’m sick of it – enough is enough!”

            That was my first of experience of the borrowing ban. In fairness, Mam was no pushover once an embargo was in place, and would vehemently endorse her husband’s theory that the Dalys didn’t always have an actual need for what they’d borrow – that it was some kind of compulsion to get their hands on whatever they saw somebody else use. What’s that thing for; what’s it called? Was a frequent question when a passing bobbing head would pause and eyes would widen in wonder. On one occasion, after another ban had been lifted, Dad replied that the implement in question was a jimmy dog. As I recall, it was Patsy who had asked, but within the hour, the blonde twins arrived to deliver their spiel. ‘Our mother says can we have the lend of the jimmy dog?’

            Bridge was nothing if not resilient, and she took all borrowing bans in her stride. She would allow a week or so to pass; then, only if she was certain Dad was at home, we would hear the pitch again: ‘our mother says can we have the lend of…’  Dad would digest the details of the latest emergency and, determined not to let his tools out of his sight, would accompany the messengers to the source of the problem. Once Dad had personally rectified the situation, normal service would resume.

            The borrowing personnel changed every couple of years. When the twin boys tired of the chore, younger sisters Breda and Mary were coerced into filling their shoes; after them came Mikey and Katie, who subsequently passed the baton to Noreen and Vincent, who were succeeded by twin girls, Angela and Alice, after whom Billy, the youngest, was forced to make the pilgrimage on his own.

            I suppose to say that they’d borrowed anything that wasn’t nailed down would be an exaggeration, but everything from shovels, spades, scythes and saws, to saucepans, spoons, scissors and sewing needles had featured among their requests. While very many items were subject to the relevant ban status, any request for tea, sugar, salt, matches, a hatching hen, the bull – or the bath – was never refused.

            In the days before electricity and indoor plumbing, a large zinc tub was an essential piece of equipment in any home. Every Saturday night, my siblings and I were stripped, soaped and scrubbed – according to age and gender – in the tub, in front of a specially lit fire in the back bedroom. Needless to say, it was Mam who supervised bath time, while Dad would keep a relay of kettles and pots simmering on the black Stanley range, ensuring an ambient temperature for bathers of every age. The bath had other uses too: Every Monday morning, without fail, the clotheslines in the haggard would be drooping long before the sounds and smells of breakfast filtered through to our bedrooms. The bath could also be used as a temporary swimming pool for baby ducklings that had been hatched by a landlubber hen; and sometimes as an emergency shelter for turkey chicks from a sudden August shower or the threat of a marauding sparrowhawk.

            When it came to the bath, Mam’s resolve was unshakable. I recall one occasion during a particularly lengthy ban when Dad dared to challenge her authority.

            “We can’t let the child march up to the altar rails in that state,” Mam argued; “sure, wouldn’t the fleas be hopping all over The Holy Host and biting lumps out of Fr Flynn?”    

            “I suppose it is only once a year.” Dad finally admitted.

            It was only once a year, once every year, when the next Daly would supposedly reach the age of reason. I’ve often wondered if any of that family ever had another bath during the eight or nine years between their pre-First Communion soak and their eventual arrival in London.             

            It was usually in early June that the adolescent Dalys would head for the boat, alone – except for the sets of twins. As her household decreased, Bridge’s affluence increased and, by the time I had begun to explore the town’s public houses, she had graduated from sipping an occasional small stout in the privacy of a secluded snug, to downing copious large whiskeys in the town’s bars and singing lounges. Tom Pa’s visits had ceased by then and, while there was never any actual news of his demise, Bridge had gleefully embraced the role of merry widow. Truly liberated, Bridge knew no boundaries, and while her overt flirting was a source of general amusement, it struck genuine terror in the hearts of many upstanding citizens.

            Bridge’s wardrobe was beginning to attract covetous glances from her betters, but even her most lavish applications of lipstick, nail varnish and conditioners failed to conceal the half-century of grease and grime that reposed undisturbed beneath her elongated fingernails, and within each crevice and pore of her sagging skin.

            Bridge really was having the time of her life; she even bought a second-hand, red Mini Minor, which she overturned within the month, instantly killing both herself and fourteen-year-old Billy, the only child who’d still remained at home.

            Tom Pa didn’t accompany the rest of the family to the funerals. After the burials, Mikey confided to me that his father had another wife and family in London, and that he had instructed Mikey to enquire if my dad would be interested in buying their smallholding. Dad did buy the property, but I’ve always suspected that his interest lay neither in the scrubby fields nor the dilapidated buildings, but in the opportunity to prospect at leisure in the seven acres of briar, gorse and rush, for his long-lost but never forgotten tools. As far as I know, none of the Dalys ever set foot in the parish again, but I did meet Mikey, by accident, more than twenty years later.

            Rushing from a fruitless Friday meeting in Tullamore to a possible target-saving appointment in Roscrea, I took a bend too quickly and my car slewed sideways into a roadside ditch. Miraculously, I was unhurt, but in my efforts to scramble clear of the listing vehicle, I dropped my phone into a deep pool of murky water. I was stranded, miles from anywhere, at about seven o’clock in the dark of a dirty November evening. Looking around in desperation, I noticed some lights; as I approached them, I found myself facing a large modern house at the end of a long gravelled driveway. At my ring, the door was opened by a barefoot middle-aged man, wearing filthy, well-worn dungarees. On hearing my situation, he ushered me inside and activated his iPhone.

            “I might just catch one of the lads,” he said, selecting a number. “Herself is out; I’m babysitting…By the way, I’m Pete.” Removing the phone from his ear, he shrugged apologetically before again scrolling through his contacts. As the number rang, his eyes swept my soiled suit and saturated shoes; again, there was no reply. Signalling me to stay put, his eyes still focussed on his phone screen, he started up the broad sweep of a winding wooden stairway.

            Despite my personal difficulties, I was still struggling to equate Pete’s attire with the opulence of my surroundings when he skipped back down the stairs.

            “Your car is being seen to,” Pete nodded. “I’ve left towels and fresh clothes upstairs for you – first room to the left of the landing. Go on; we’ll get you sorted.” 

            Being a sales rep, I regularly overnight in hotels. Some are better than others, but I’ve never had a room that could remotely compare with Pete’s en suite guest room. While no expense had been spared, it seemed to me that good taste had taken priority over mere ostentation.

            Showered and dried, I appraised the pile of clean clothing that lay on the king-sized bed. Pete had thought of everything, down to underwear, woollen socks and a pair of sturdy leather boots – and even a clean handkerchief. Dressed in snug-fitting jeans and woollen sweater, I started downstairs as a striking redhead appeared through the front door. She treated me to a brief flash of shining teeth and sparkling eyes before disappearing inside the depths of the house of which she seemed a natural part.

            “Right,” Pete said, reappearing. “We’ll see if there’s a verdict on your car.” He led the way to a large fully-equipped garage at the rear of the house, where an overall-clad mechanic was studying the undercarriage my company Toyota Avensis, from beneath a hydraulic lift.

“Well, what do you think?” I heard Pete ask.

            “He’s lucky, whoever he is.” The mechanic replied without turning. “Except for a few dents on the wing and the passenger door – which should pop out easy enough – I can’t see any damage.”

            “Is it safe to drive?” Pete asked.

            “I’d say so, but I’ll check the steering and tracking when I drop her down.

            “I’ll leave you to it; good luck.” Pete offered his hand; I shook it gratefully.

            “Thank you so much, I don’t know what…”

            “Ah, ’twas nothing,” he grinned, stooping to coil a tow chain and load it into the back of a parked jeep, before heading back towards the house.

            “I wondered when I saw the name on that briefcase in your car,” the mechanic had turned around. Grinning broadly, he towelled grease from his hands. “I wasn’t prying – but I’m delighted to finally be able to do something you, old pal.”

            “Mikey?” I finally managed, matching the warmth of his grasp. “Mikey Daly, I thought you were in London?”

            “Wasn’t a quarter-century long enough? Yeah, we’re still based in London, but when we landed the motorway contract here, and Katie and Pete decided to move home, I thought ‘twas time I did the same. My brother Joe, one of the twins, has the London headaches now. I managed to buy a lovely old Edwardian place, with seven acres, almost next-door to my wife’s people – house, gate lodge, coach houses, stables and all – for small enough money. Some developer had gone bust; he was going to level the lot and build a couple of dozen houses on what is now my front lawn. The kids don’t know themselves with the space. I’d always felt guilty about rearing them in the city, that they didn’t have the freedom we had…”

            I was no longer listening; my brain had finally registered the logo on the door of the parked jeep. Dalyne Constructionwas big, very big. Both colleagues and rival reps had long been falling over each other to get a foot inside that particular door. Dalyne Construction had proven itself recession-proof; a tiny fraction of itsbusiness would guarantee my monthly targets – indefinitely…

            Misinterpreting my silence, Mikey decided to explain further.

            “And you’ve met Pete – Katie’s husband – he’s the Lyne part of the business. Sure, don’t you know Katie; she used to go with me to your house. Remember; when we’d be borrowing the bath?”