The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [53]
Declan paused. Out of the corner of his eye Finbar could see that his brother was watching him, waiting for some reaction. He couldn’t help feeling somehow pleased by Declan’s discomfort. Finbar could sense this story was going nowhere nice. He knew Declan had made a mess of running away to London; he could hear it in his voice.
“Fin, it was poxy. The cousin got me a job bricklaying. It was fucking awful. I had to get up at five in the morning. Then the cousin says I have to start paying rent and he and Ambrose have this big fight and the cousin kicks me out.”
Finbar put down his pen and for the first time looked straight at Declan. He intended saying something smartarsed but when he saw his brother’s face—tired, defeated, pitiful—he just shook his head lightly.
“Did you make any money?” asked Finbar.
Declan shook his head.
“Then why did you go? I had to put up with them while you were away all full of could be down a laneway somewhere with a knife in his back and all that.”
“Yeah. Look. I’m sorry. I wanted to get out. I needed to … I wanted to …”
“What?”
“I just needed to get away and I fucked it up and now I’m back like an eejit without a penny and I have to listen to them again. Fuck sake! They want me to apply for this stupid job at the gas company.”
“So? They let you back.”
“Ah fuck, Fin, it’s just miserable. I miss Cork. I miss …”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just … Remember when Sheila dumped me?” Declan stared down at his fists in his lap as he spoke. “Well. She didn’t really dump me. She was knocked up.”
“Fuck sake!”
“Don’t you start too. They took her away. One of those fucking laundries in the middle of nowhere.”
“Jaysus, Dec, that’s shite. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, Fin. It is the worst shite. I don’t know what to do. It’s like I’m trying to do everything with the wrong hand. I fuck everything up. I’m really fucked off—”
Declan stopped abruptly, gathered up all his dirty clothes, and went downstairs. Finbar picked up Declan’s writing pad from his bed:
Dear Sir,
I want to apply for the job of Accounts Clerk, Third Class, Grade IV. Give me the job or I’ll break your head, ye fucker!
Declan had scribbled all over the page after writing the words.
Stupid sap, thought Finbar, but smiled a little. He picked up the pad and wrote:
Dear Sir,
I wish to apply for the position of Accounts Clerk, Second Class, Grade IV, as advertised in this evening’s Way Forward. I am hard-working, thorough, and reliable. I can be available for interview at any time and I look forward to hearing from you.
He wrote Try this, Dec at the top of the page, threw the pad back on his brother’s bed, and returned to his homework.
18
From the outside it looked just like any of the other squalid mill and warehouse buildings that huddled together on the Limerick Road just beyond Dullow. The only indications that it was a Jezebel Laundry were the bricked-up windows facing the road and the small brass crucifix affixed to the padlocked metal gates. Above the crucifix sat a small brass plate that bore the inscription: Purgatorio Per Ardua: Purgatory Through Drudgery.
“Fifty-seven! Put your back into it or I’ll tan your hide for you, you ignorant slattern!” Sister Delia’s voice cut its way through the hot damp air of the washing room.
Standing on her tall stool over the vat of dirty steaming water, Maureen Heffernan punched and twisted the unwieldy washing peggy into the heavy sodden clothes again. Her arms ached and throbbed. All she had eaten that day was one slice of dry toast for breakfast. Her dinner had been fed to the dogs as punishment for her slowness in the ironing room. She felt weak and the sweat soaked through her black dress in large itchy patches.
Sister Delia watched Maureen with satisfaction. She recalled the fiery young girl who had been brought to the laundry only a year before, shouting, kicking, and spitting.
Sister Delia passed out of the room, stopping near the door to grab Agnes Kerrigan by what was left of her unevenly