Robin had laid out a program so Conor would know the team plays, the opposition club by club, fine points and the rules. He was greatly impressed by Conor's intellectual attack on the game. This season the only thing the Boilermakers were setting on fire was Derek Crawford's stomach. Robin was determined to deliver a player polished enough to make the team and the Midlands tour.
Within the week everyone in a two-pub radius of Tobergill Road had paid their respects. Everyone except Shelley MacLeod. Conor was made to feel at ease with them but was given to understand that Robin's sister was a bit of an off horse, somewhat uppity.
With the knowledge her brother was teaching another new player, Shelley avoided his house studiously. She was a Shankill lass indeed and from time to time could be drawn into the Saturday night Guinness scene but she was also aloof for long periods and much of a stranger to her kind. Robin's mates, decent as they were, were a dull rough lot with primate range and desires. Another player held little allure.
Despite Shelley's aversion, the special aura of Conor Larkin's semi-nightly appearances failed to dull. The family seemed taken with him. There was the vibration that one could feel between the two houses that made it an event when he appeared. After a fortnight of careful evasion, her healthy curiosity needed to be satisfied.
She announced that she would join them for a Saturday dinner to which Conor Larkin had been invited. He was an impressive sight, she thought, if one merely took physical appearance into consideration, for he stood a half head over Robin and, when they were introduced, a full head over herself. She found herself mumbling an awkward hello as he continued to hold onto her hand and silently study her. His eyes went only from the long red hair to stop at her incredible green eyes. He was filled with a strange kind of hunger, not lust, but the hunger of a searcher who had suddenly struck onto something. They simply stood and stared until the trance was snapped when Matthew was plucked off the street, giving her a chance to break it off and march him away for a howling scrubbing.
Morgan dropped his temperance posture for the event by snitching a drink with the lads, then returned to full blown pomp as he placed himself ceremoniously at the head of the table He adjusted his glasses, which needed no adjusting, for he always read the Bible from memory. After opening the five-generation heirloom he cleared his throat as a signal for heads to bow.
"These are the things that ye shall do: Speak ye every man the truth to his neighbour; execute the judgment of truth and peace in your gates; and let none of you imagine evil in your hearts against his neighbour; and love no false oath: for all these things that I hate, saith the Lord."
Having intoned his acceptance of Conor Larkin, he closed the book and bowed his own head. As he did, he caught a glimpse of his daughter and Conor staring at one another point-blank over Matthew's head and he knew from his years that the oldest of ignitions was taking place in his home. He had never seen his daughter so swiftly stunned or even realized she had the capacity for it. Shelley was always in control of Shelley.
"Thank ye, Lord, for Thy bountiful gifts and for the presence of a new friend who has graced our home." Morgan looked up with the expectation Conor might want to cross himself or add a word. Getting no response, he said, "Amen."
After dinner they adjourned to the parlor about the reflector stove purring in family warmth. Lucy perched uncomfortably at the piano stool when Morgan's unabashed and thunderous voice forced them all into a songfest. By the fourth round, uneasiness toward one another vanished and Conor galvanized the moment with a voice that no one expected with a Donegal ballad of ages and ages. There was a brief moment of blanching when Matt called for a rousing Orange number. It was pounced over quickly by a haymaker of "Coming Through the Rye."
Matthew dozed, Robin carried him home and everyone seemed to fade, leaving Conor and Shelley quite alone. The uneasiness of the first instant of their meeting returned.
"It's been a grand evening," Conor said. He took his cap from the rack and left.
*
A long week later Shelley knocked on Lucy's kitchen door and entered. Conor was by himself, assembling loose leaf notes at the table
He looked up. "I think Lucy and Matt have turned in. Robin's down at the pub getting us a few pints."
"I know," she said. "I waited for him to go." She seemed stuck to the floor in obvious anger with herself for following the urge to come to him, then telling him so .
"I've been looking out for you every night," Conor said. "I'm glad you decided not to wait any longer."
Shelley had warded off Shankill toughs all her life with little more than a sharp look. She wanted to cut him down but found herself unable to strike at him. His observation was simple truth. She had avoided him; he waited. She seemed no longer able to avoid him. The lure during the week had become irresistible and wholly uncomfortable.
"Well?" Conor asked.
"Well indeed," Shelley answered, still puzzled by her own behavior.
"Shall we be seeing each other, Shelley?" he said straight on.
"Is tomorrow night soon enough?" she answered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sir Frederick enthusiastically endorsed Caroline's proposal that something in wrought iron be executed at the yard and given in the Weed name to the new City Hall on Donegal Square. Larkin was dispatched to examine the building, which was nearing completion, and return with an appropriate suggestion. One might have thought that the ponderous structure was headquartering the capital of Ireland or at least a province, instead of a mere city of four hundred thousand inhabitants.
On the site of the old Linen Hall, its dimensions were enormous and all of it was capped with a dome which soared a hundred and seventy-five feet above Belfast, an ode to her industrial prowess.
Conor quenched his own hatred of the project, for it had established him exactly where he wanted to be within the Weed compound. He decided on a pair of gates from the foyer into the Great Hall, which occupied the entire east front of the quadrangular building.
On the premise that Belfast was the heartland of that thick, pious Ulster mentality, Conor realized something in the nature of the airy lace of Tijou or the Italian school was out of the question. He set out to design, instead, a quasi-German Baroque that reeked of "Reformation." Its heaviness of style allowed him to fill the gates with all sorts of heraldic shields and symbols of progress to stir Ulster blood.
Conor realized Sir Frederick was an art collector and a man of great taste and had to take care not to offend him. At the same time the gates had to be kept in harmony with both the building and the theme of the land and people it ruled. He walked a thin line that hovered between a very subtle joke and grandeur.
The detailed rendering was submitted personally after a month. Sir Frederick lit the customary cigar, spread the drawings and proceeded to be deliciously puzzled. It was there, yet it wasn't there. The good strokes' were brilliant. The bad taste seemed to be exquisitely managed. Weed studied Larkin as well as the drawings, both amused and suddenly respectful. He knew the man was completely deliberate in what he was doing.
"See here, Larkin, are you pulling my leg?"
"Have you seen the inside of the building?"
"Humm, not recently."
"Perhaps you'd better have a look."
"Well, it does say Ulster, all right, I'll give you that."
"Could I suggest you show it to the city fathers concerned and get the benefit of their reactions?" Conor suggested.
Weed did exactly that. They raved to a man. Larkin had hit the mark and the plans were approved.
*
Rumbles could always be expected when a Catholic infringed on the all-Protestant domains within the Weed Works. They were kept to a minimum when Bart Wilson, whom Conor had replaced on the Boilermakers, was elevated to foreman of a plating shop to quell any rippling waters. He personally introduced Conor around, which led to tacit acceptance. Members of Sir Frederick's rugby team had special status. Moreover, Larkin didn't appear to be a
job threat in that he was on a personal commission for Sir Frederick. Mutual coolness and staying out of one another's way prevailed.
The locomotive works at the complex expanded along the south side of King William Channel opposite the shipyard, sprawling from under the shadows of the steel mill. A line of support shops adjoined the main assembly plant where Conor was established in one of the forges. He was as welcome as a leper but was left largely on his own.
Afforded the freedom to move about at will, he dissected the gigantic complex. Somewhere in the vastness there would be that blind spot, that back door into Ulster, through which to bring over the guns from England. Yet, as he took it on, area by area, the key remained tauntingly elusive. One promising prospect after another led to dead ends. What seemed to be a loose operation from the outside was far tighter than he had expected. All material, cargo and movement was under strict control. Even if one managed to get guns over from England to Weed's private docks, what then? How could they be unloaded in the yard and transported beyond the yard? It began to look impossible. Yet he was on the inside and somewhere, somehow . . . the back door was there.
He moved about from iron mill to slip ways to docks, mapping inch by inch in his mind, later to translate it to paper. His eye became an instant calculator. He searched until he became suspicious of his own freedom of movement. If he were seen four or five times in the same area, just observing, sooner or later it would be bound to draw an inquiry.
In the beginning he wanted to be near the locomotive works because it was the most central place in the complex. For reasons not known to himself, he sensed something about it. It was just a bit down the line from his forge and he could easily go in and out several times a day, for he had befriended Duffy O'Hurley, driver of Sir Frederick's private train.
*
The driver who was at the throttle of the Red Hand Express which broke the hundred-mile-an-hour barrier was Duffy O'Hurley out of County Tipperary with his brother in-law, Calhoun Hanly, as fireman. Duffy had survived all of the early perils of railroading including numerous brake and coupling failures, derailings and one monumental crash. He was a "pounder" whose black-smoke tactics and consumption of coal and water spelled speed. The team of O'Hurley and Hanly were a tad more legendary in a profession that created legends. Despite the fact they were Catholics, Sir Frederick hired them out of sheer frustration. When Duffy and Calhoun came down that Newtownabbey straightaway at one hundred and six miles an hour on the first crack out of the box, Sir Frederick rewarded them with lifelong tenure as the crew of his private engine. Nothing could dissuade Weed's loyalty, even the constant grousing of his daughter over O'Hurley's heavy-handed driving.
Part of the lasting allure of the Red Hand was the continued modification of the superb basic design and Sir Frederick's personal effort to keep it in the public eye. An annual promotion was made in England tied to the Boilermakers' tour of the Midlands.
Each year the newest model led the private train with renewed fanfare. In industrial England, its arrival was looked forward to and welcomed as a county fair. Engine, tender and private cars were painted in Ulster colors, bun tinged flagged and decorated to the stack. Sir Frederick personally parried prospective buyers and the press with elaborate day rides and champagne picnics. There were rides for the school kiddies with contest winners in each town getting to sit up front with O'Hurley himself. Photographs of Sir Frederick's latest pride never failed to make the British press. A number of persons close to royal sources rumored that his antics all but cost him an elevation to peerage. Yet this was in the finest tradition of those flamboyant builders of the era who were also its super salesmen
Duffy O'Hurley fitted into the scheme famously, a stage Irishman who gloried in the role, a colorful addition with an everlasting joke to impart, an everlasting bet to wager, everlasting gregariousness and an everlasting drink in his hand.
When he wasn't on the road with Sir Frederick's private train, he stationed himself at the Works in the locomotive assembly plant like an expectant father chaperoning the construction of the coming model. With ultimate responsibility for the engine's performance, he fawned over it, supervising every last detail.
When he wasn't at the locomotive works he was at Boilermaker Stadium, for surely if he hadn't become Ireland's greatest driver he would have been her greatest rugby player. A big, gruff man of total nerve, he was accepted as an equal by the players and alone had the privilege of their lounge. His position and intimacy with the team gave him hero's status in every bar he deigned to grace.
It was a small matter for Conor and Duffy O'Hurley to become quick friends. Larkin's forge stood a short way from the locomotive plant and generated Duffy's curiosity. Larkin was a man of substance, like himself, an artisan as he was an artist in locomotive driving, both were fellow R.C.s (and at times it got lonely in the yard) and both were members of the Boilermakers, so to speak.
Conor immediately sensed O'Hurley as a potential ally and returned the visits, where he was shown the inner workings of the Red Hand engine. Duffy was more than pleased to endlessly explain anything and everything. Conor took care to keep the friendship on an easy level and did no probing of the man's sympathies, habits or past.
It wasn't the engine itself that began to catch his fancy but the coal and water tender and the movements of the train throughout the year.
Of a day after practice, Duffy was at his usual station at bar side in the players' lounge gushing with excitement, for he'd be testing his new engine within a week.
"What happens to the engine when the tour is done?" Conor asked.
"It stays in the private service of Sir Frederick for a year, till the next model."
"Travel much?"
"Oh, not too much for a bachelor, mostly to Derry and back. A run or two to their summer place in Kinsale, in and out of Dublin, and over to England maybe four times a year. But it's first class all the way."
"Aye, that's good. Now what happens to the old engine after you put the new one on?"
"Could you ever believe there's a waiting list a mile long to buy it? Every pipsqueak maharajah and every gold mine owner in South Africa wants that personal engine, even used. We got four South American generals on the waiting list. Are you thinking of buying it, Conor?"
"Maybe," Conor answered softly. The back door into Ulster had just opened a crack.
CHAPTER NINE
Markets, a wee Catholic enclave, lay at the River Lagan wedged between the gas works and a conglomeration of warehouses and factories. It consisted of a stand of eighteenth-century dwellings decayed beyond mere dilapidation. Slimy cobblestones held a veneer of unwashed filth. Conor trod so softly an egg would not have broken under his feet. He found the opening to a dead-end court. The street sign had long been unreadable. Four little girls skipping rope blocked his way.
"In and out go the dusty bluebells,
In and out go the dusty bluebells,
In and out go the dusty bluebells,
I'll be your master.
"Follow me to Londonderry,
Follow me to Cork and Kerry,
Follow me so light and airy,
For I'll be your master.
Tipper-ipper-rapper on the left-hand shoulder,
Tipper-ipper-rapper on the left-hand shoulder,
Tipper-ipper-rapper on the left-hand shoulder,
I'll be your master."
"Good morning, darlings," Conor said when the skip rope stopped swinging. "I'm looking for Cyril's Close."
"This is it here, mister."
"Would you be knowing where Mick McGrath lives?"
They immediately fell silent, a conditioning of constant flight from bill collectors. Conor smiled. “Don't you be worrying, I'm not a tick man. I'm an old friend of his from Derry."
They looked at one another, verging on flight, then the smallest stepped forward and took Conor's hand and led him to the end of the court and pointed. Then she fled.
Conor sucked in a sigh as he looke
d over the surroundings. The immense gas works storage tank hovered directly above the court, blocking any possibility of sunlight. His knock was greeted by the sounds of darting movement inside. He knocked again, louder. From the corner of his eye he spotted someone giving him a glimpse from the crack of a drawn window shade.
Conor pounded. "Open up. It's a friend!"
A baby's cry inside gave it away. Conor repeated his pounding and the door opened slightly. Mick McGrath blinked his eyes at the onslaught of daylight. He didn't look himself, he'd gone that rotten. "Who is it?" he rasped.
"Conor Larkin from Derry."
The door dared open a crack further, revealing the wreckage of Mick McGrath. Reluctant memory brought an expression of remembrance. "Well, bless me," Mick said, "so it is."
Conor shoved it open wide and was greeted with a foul smell of mold and an unclean stench of human odors.
"Hey, sorry about not answering the knock sooner," Mick said. "The tick men have been on me. No heart at all so long as they get their bloody rents."
Conor stepped into the room. In the peeling grayness he saw an old granny rocking and mumbling to herself, obviously not in her own mind.
A skinny, stone-eyed woman sat awry on a cot, her back propped against the wall.
"My wife, Elva, she's been feeling poorly."
The baby shrieked. The woman reached for it in a robot manner and shoved a flat breast into its mouth. She coughed over and over from the pressure of the baby's sucking until it wracked her and she shoved it away, spat and reached for a bottle of poteen. The baby resumed screaming.
"I . . . I've got one of my heads this morning . . . the bloody thing's opening," Mick said.
Conor backed to the door. "Get yourself together," he said. "I'll meet you at the pub on the corner of Little May Street."
As he closed the door behind him, the four little girls who had been singing "Dusty Bluebells" were standing and gawking and all around the court he could feel the glare of hidden eyes. "Get on with you," he said, brushing past them.