Edward Kane and The Voice of the Spider. Chapter 11: Having Trouble with Big Brendan?
The gigantic Irishman was so close now, that Horse could smell his rancid breath. Horse took stock of the situation. In a fair fight, one without weapons, the best that Horse could hope for was a kind of ignominious draw, where he would get in a few jabs, then take to his heels and run; on the other hand, if Horse could only produce and utilise his nine-inch iron bar (affectionately known as ‘Aunty Betty’), then Horse could ‘brain’ his oversized opponent (assuming that this confrontational gentleman possessed a brain in the first place). Two complications: (1) the iron bar was in the sleeve of Horse’s jacket, which jacket was hanging on the back of the chair beside the table, and (2) the aggressor was carrying a weapon of his own, a large green bottle. Best play it safe for now. Horse was fond of the song ‘Ten Green Bottles’, but he didn’t want to be hit over the head by one. He gave a nervous laugh: ‘Service is slow tonight, ennit.’ The barmaid slid two rums onto the counter and held out her hand for payment. Horse put a coin into her hand, then lifted up the tumblers. He raised one in cheers to the testy individual before him: ‘God save the queen.’ The Irishman spat on the floor: ‘That’s for your queen.’ He spat a second time: ‘And that’s for your five pounds.’ Horse gave a cautious grin: ‘Nice chatting to you.’ – and slid back to the table. The foreman Boylan smirked and nodded over to the confrontational customer standing at the counter: ‘Having trouble with Big Brendan are we?’ Horse shrugged: ‘He is a big lad.’ Boylan took a sip from his rum: ‘He heard your accent. He blames The English for all his troubles.’
‘Get in the queue, mate.’
‘Especially the queen.’ Horse sat back in his chair, puzzled. Boylan leaned forward: ‘They say that when Victoria heard about the great hunger in the old country, she gave some money from her own purse. To help the people, you know.’ Horse raised his eyebrows: ‘A good thing, then.’ Boylan tutted: ‘Horse – she gave…five pounds.’ He made an expansive gesture with her hands: ‘For the whole country, me friend, the men, the women, the children are starving. And she throws the five pound at them.’ This struck Horse as unlikely, but he decided to say nothing. Never a wise move for an Englishman to start disputing matters in an Irish shebeen. Boylan nodded and took a sip: ‘Brendan lost his whole family in Black ’47. He’s the only survivor. Took its toll.’ The Irishman winked: ‘Makes the boy a bit cheeky.’
Horse nodded: ‘Well, he’s got enough cheek for a new arse.’
Boylan let out a huge laugh and raised his glass: ‘Oh, yer a funny fella, Mr Horse. Are you sure you’re not Irish?’
The rum was savoured and the conversation turned to the factory girl, Peggy.
Boylan became dewy-eyed: ‘Of course, I wanted a boy…you know… to follow in me footsteps…’
It was beyond Horse’s imagination to conceive what those storied footsteps might be, but he said nothing. The foreman continued: ‘But the girl has done me proud, she has. Especially growing up without a mother…’. Horse frowned: ‘I thought it was the three of you sailed over on the lucky match money…’. Boylan nodded: ‘Yes, we did – but the wife was struck down with the cholera. I remember the date. It was Sunday, 13th January, 1848. Peggy’s fifth birthday. And on that day, me wife – God rest her soul – passed away. He made the sign of the cross and blessed himself. ‘Some birthday gift, eh?’
Not for the first time, Horse felt a pang of tenderness towards the ‘little spider’. He recalled those grim cholera days, drifting through the streets of London, shying away from the cartloads of bodies at the side of the road. How many had died that year? Ten thousand? Fifteen? The foreman interrupted Horse’s reverie: ‘And then, five years later, we lost me uncle. He wasn’t even that old, but we were short of lads that day and he was doing a bit of the heavy lifting. Then…’. Boylan snapped his fingers, ‘…out like a light. Never knew what hit him.’
Horse narrowed his eyes: ‘So, how did you become foreman?’ Boylan guffawed: ‘How do you think, my friend?’ And he took out his tin of matches and shook them. Horse leaned back in his chair and shook his head. The Irishman continued: ‘And when all the papers and such needed signed, I gave them to my wee Peggy and she read them out to me. She still does.’ Horse nodded: ‘But who signs them?’ Boylan was suddenly different now, not furtive, but obviously proud: ‘I sign them meself. I can’t read, but I can write my name, sure I can. My wee Peggy taught me. Oh, she’s a bright wee spark.’ He leaned back in his chair: ‘And that old bitch Carmunnock is never going to get her. Not for a thousand pound. Peggy is all I have left. Of her mother, I mean. And if I lose Peggy, then who’ll look after me in me old age, eh?’
Horse nodded and said nothing. He looked over to the counter and the bar bully had disappeared. Probably best to leave now and get back and report to Kane. He looked back at the foreman, who had tears in his eyes and appeared to be drawing something in the liquid slop on the filthy table-top. Difficult to make out, but Horse realised that the Irishman had been writing words. Hard to read – especially upside-down – but the candle-light shone on the edges of the lettering and Horse soon realised that it could only say one thing. The Irishman’s scrawled, child-like signature: “Conar Boylan”.
Tomorrow in The Scotsman: Tiny Shards of Green Glass
Edward Kane and Mr Horse: Volume II of the Collected Short Stories. Available from Amazon and Kindle