Act Three |
Michael and Moira are asleep in their respective bunks. There’s a knock on the deck hatch. Moira stirs, sleepily, but Michael is immediately alert. “Who’s that?” he cries, anxiously. The knock is repeated. “Who’s there? Who is it?”
The hatch opens and Marker comes down the companionway. He addresses Michael’s voice through the gloom. “Mind if I come in? We’ve already met – name of Marker.”
“What do you want?” demands Michael. “Go away. Clear off. Leave me alone.”
“I’m going to,” Marker promises, “just as soon as… What kind of light do you have in here?” He bumps his head against a lantern. “Hold on. I think I’ve found it.” He takes out some matches and lights the lantern. Moira, who’s been watching him fearfully from deep in the bedclothes, snuggles down even further.
“You have no business here,” says Michael. “Get out. Buzz off.”
Moira hisses to Michael, “What are you telling him for? Telling is no good. Put him out.”
Marker hears the voice and turns to Moira, surprised. “Good evening! How are you?”
Moira ducks down again. “Don’t you talk to her,” snaps Michael.
“I dropped in to tell you to put some clothes on,” Marker informs him. “You’re having visitors.”
Michael reacts with alarm. “Visitors? Who says?”
“I was hired as a kind of gun dog,” explains Marker. “All I’m supposed to do is find you and mark the spot with a big fat ‘X’. But there are two very sweet old people coming around here –”
“Two?”
“Your parents.”
“Parents? I haven’t got any parents. I’m an –”
Marker completes the sentence. “An orphan. I heard.”
“He is!” says Moira.
Marker nods. “An orphan who blows up statues. You know, I keep meeting liars – they come with the job. But you’re pretty good. You ought to think of turning professional.”
Moira speaks up again. “Michael is –”
“It’s all the same to me,” Marker tells her. “But these old people will be here in a few minutes, and I don’t think they’d like to find the apple of their eye cohabitating. So that gives you just enough time to get out of here.”
Michael agrees. “He’s right, Moira. Maybe you’d better –”
“I’ll do no such thing,” says Moira.
“We’ll only be accused of something we didn’t do.”
Moira rounds on him, viciously. “And whose fault is that? Honest to God, you’d think it was something to boast about, dragging a girl all this distance, and for sweet damn-all.” She turns to Marker. “Oh, it’s true what they say, Mr Marker – men were deceivers ever.” She struggles out of her bunk. “Turn your back.”
“I was just leaving,” Marker assures her. To Michael, he says, “When they get here, I’ll bring them upstairs to your friends’ place. That’ll give you time to get dressed.” He sees the stricken look on Michael’s face. “Don’t worry.” He nods in Moira’s direction. “I won’t mention her if you don’t.” He ascends the companionway. Michael calls out to him to wait. Marker pays no attention. He disappears out of sight.
Moira dons an overcoat over her nightdress. “If they’re going to follow us all over the shop, then we may as well face them and have it over with,” she reckons.
Michael doesn’t share her confidence. “They’ll murder me,” he whimpers.
“Well,” says Moira, scathingly, “aren’t you easily murdered!”
“I suppose I’d better put me clothes on,” he decides.
“Nobody’s stopping you.”
Michael gets out of bed. “Don’t look.”
Moira rolls her eyes. “Well, sufferin’ saints!” She turns her back. Michael climbs down from his bunk.
* * *
Marker waits at the front steps of the tenement. A taxi draws up, and the Gannons get out. Marker greets them and leads them into the house. A moment later, another taxi arrives. Willie gets out of this one. Then he, too, enters the building.
* * *
Con and Barney are sitting dejectedly on Con’s bed as Marker returns. “I brought the secret polis,” he announces. He calls behind him. “This way.”
The Gannons follow him in. Mr Gannon strides to the centre of the room and unleashes a ferocious roar. “Now!” Then he breaks off and looks around. “Where is he?” He points at Con. “That’s not him.” Gannon turns to Marker, angrily. “You said you had him. Where is he?”
Marker is startled by Gannon’s sudden change of character. “He’s not far. He –”
Gannon cuts him off. “‘Not far’?” he bellows. “What good is ‘not far’? I want him here!”
“Where’s he hidin’?” demands Mrs Gannon, just as aggressively. “What hole’s he crawled into?”
“I left him to get dressed,” says Marker, still taking in the unexpected transformation of the hitherto docile Gannons. Buying himself time to think, he introduces Barney and Con. “These are friends of his. They –”
“You mean he knows we’re here?” Gannon interrupts. “You told him?”
“Yes,” replies Marker.
“Oh, you eejit!” cries Mrs Gannon. “He’ll give us the slip. He’ll be out and away.”
Marker looks at her. “I don’t think he’ll do that, Mrs Gannon. Why should he? After all, you and Mr Gannon are his parents – you haven’t come here to harm him.” He watches her closely for her reaction.
“God forbid!” exclaims Gannon, quickly reverting to his amiable old self. “Do you hear him, Agnes?”
Mrs Gannon follows his example. “Harm Michael?” she replies. “Such a thing to say! I’d sooner cut off me right hand.”
“But we’re dying to see him, Mr Marker,” claims Gannon. “The missus is that excited – look at her.”
“Yes, I am,” says Marker. “Mr Gannon, why do you call your wife Agnes?”
Gannon frowns. “What?”
“In the pub earlier on, you called her Alice.”
“I did not.”
“Yes, you did,” insists Marker. “Alice.”
“Ah, no,” smiles Gannon. “You misheard me. Do you think I wouldn’t know me own wife’s name?”
“Does she know yours?”
“Certainly she knows mine.” Gannon turns to the old woman. She hesitates, panic-stricken. Gannon has to help her out. “It’s John.”
“Yes!” agrees Mrs Gannon, quick as a flash.
“Full marks,” says Marker, sarcastically.
“Now, look,” says Gannon, keen to change the subject, “we’ve had enough of your trick-acting. Never mind who’s called what – that’s none of your business. You’re being paid to find us that young blackguard –”
“Blackguard, Mr Gannon?” asks Marker, in mock surprise.
“Now, where is he?”
“Why do you want him?”
“I told you –”
Marker shakes his head. “Lies, Mr Gannon. I’ve had enough lies to choke a sewer.” He points in turn at Mr Gannon, Mrs Gannon and Con, before returning to the Gannons. “From you and you and you, and that son of yours who claims he’s an orphan. Everywhere, nothing but tall stories.” He pauses, realising the adjective is inadequate. “Tall? They’re in orbit! Mr Gannon, I’m not too particular about the jobs I take, but I like to know why – even at the risk of cramping your talent for inventiveness.”
Con giggles, approvingly. “That’s good.” Barney suggests that he make some tea. “Yeah!” agrees Con, wholeheartedly.
Marker continues to interrogate Gannon. “Tell me, do you do it just for fun, or is there a reason? I’d like to know.” There’s a pause. The Gannons exchange uneasy glances. “I bet you two aren’t even related.”
“How dare you!” protests Mrs Gannon. “We are so!”
Gannon begins to say, “She’s me –” Then he hesitates and looks to his associate for approval.
“You may as well tell him,” says the old woman, “not that it’s any of his business.”
“Mrs Dunphy is me… mother-in-law,” reveals Gannon. Marker looks dumbfounded. Gannon continues. “A decent, respectable woman.”
“And an unfortunate one,” adds Mrs Gannon – or rather, Mrs Dunphy.
“And your wife…?” prompts Marker.
“Oh, a lovely wife I’ve got,” replies Gannon, his affability quickly giving way to cynicism. “She ran off with that pup of a nephew of mine, where do you think she is!”
“Is she still with him?” demands Mrs Dunphy.
Marker gradually puts the pieces together. “Do you mean that girl is –?”
Con interrupts, affronted. “He told us he was married to her!”
Marker finishes his sentence: “– your wife?”
“And my daughter, God pity me,” adds Mrs Dunphy. “Any other girl would give their eye teeth to have Mr Gannon for a husband, but not that rip!”
“And Michael Gannon is your nephew?” says Marker, to Gannon.
Gannon nods, ruefully. “I brought him up like me own, took him into the business – a goin’ concern with two hearses and twelve mournin’ coaches – and this is me thanks!”
“Mr Gannon, I’d have taken your case whatever the reason – but don’t you think you might have told me?”
“Told you what?”
“The truth,” replies Marker, keeping his temper in check.
“And have everybody know our business?” asks Gannon, appalled.
Mrs Dunphy turns to him. “He must think we’re a bit simple.”
“No,” says Marker, sincerely. “No, I don’t think that.”
“Anyway,” says Gannon, “you can see why we’re so –” He stops as the door opens, and Michael and Moira come in. For a moment, there’s silence – but only for a moment. “There he is,” declares Gannon. “There’s the pair of them!”
Moira is the first of them to speak. “Mick has something to tell you.”
“Oh, has he?” asks Gannon, heavily.
Mrs Dunphy lays into her daughter. “You brazen rip! How dare you make a show of us! I’ll whip the skin off you –”
Gannon waves her to silence. “Quiet, now… quiet,” he says, ominously. “Michael has something to say to us.” He waits.
Moira pushes a terror-stricken Michael forward. “Go on,” she says. “Tell them.”
“Yes,” smiles Gannon, dangerously. “Tell us.”
Michael speaks, falteringly. “Moira and me are very… very sorry for all the trouble you’ve been put to. We…” He hesitates.
“Say it,” urges Moira. “What are you afraid of?”
Michael continues. “And we hope you won’t be too… uh…” He looks helplessly at Moira.
Moira looks exasperated. “Honest to God, you’re useless!” To the others, she says, “Mick and me want to tell you, you’re wasting your time. It’s no good following us – we’re staying the way we are.” She turns to Michael. “Aren’t we?” Michael doesn’t say anything. Moira nudges him. “Tell them.”
Michael mutters, unenthusiastically, “We’re staying the way we are.”
“You adulterous rip,” cries Mrs Dunphy. “You’re coming home with us.”
“No, I’m not,” states Moira, firmly. “And neither is Mick.”
Mrs Dunphy snorts a bitter laugh. “Him? Who wants him? But you are. The whole town thinks you’re in Dublin with your uncle an’ aunt – and you’re not going to make a liar of me.”
Now Marker scoffs with derision. “A what?”
Mrs Dunphy ignores him. “And poor Mr Gannon was so good to you.”
“Goodness isn’t everything, Mammy,” replies Moira. “I love Mick, and he loves me.”
“Does he?” asks Gannon. “We’ll see about that.” He goes to the door and calls out, “Are you there, Willie?”
“Who?” asks Michael, in sudden terror. Willie lumbers in. His eyes light up when he sees Michael.
“What’s he doing here?” asks Moira.
Willie addresses Gannon. “I waited outside like you said.”
“There’s the good boy,” says Mrs Dunphy, proudly. “Willie’s me eldest,” she explains to Marker.
Marker nods expressionlessly to the hulking giant. “Evening.”
Gannon indicates Michael. “There you are, Willie. You said you wanted to get your hands on him.”
Happily, Willie advances on Michael. Moira steps in between them. “Willie Dunphy,” she commands, “just you leave him alone.”
“Keep him away from me!” pleads Michael.
“Don’t you lay a finger on him,” Moira continues. “Now, stop! Willie!” She cries out as Willie lifts her bodily out of the way, then renews his advance upon Michael, who continues to back away.
“Don’t touch me,” cries Michael. “Stay away!”
Marker decides to intervene. He moves briskly across to Willie. “Now, look,” he says, in a deliberately calm tone. “Why don’t we all just –” Willie pushes him, quite impersonally, aside. Marker lands on the bed from which Con and Barney are watching the proceedings, drinking tea. Michael backs towards the cooking alcove. Marker turns to Con and Barney. “I thought you were friends of his.”
“He’s no friend of ours, mate,” replies Con. “Lyin’ to us – livin’ with a married woman an’ lettin’ Barney an’ me damn our souls by providin’ the bedclothes? No thanks! Let the louser fight his own battles.”
As Michael disappears into the cooking alcove, he cries out to Gannon. “Mr Gannon, don’t let him hit me! I didn’t mean it. It was her fault. She made me. I didn’t want anything to do with her, but she wouldn’t leave me alone.” Moira reacts to this with a look of stunned disbelief. “She was always at me,” continues Michael, “tryin’ to put ideas into me head. I don’t like her. I don’t want her. Don’t let him hit me!” There’s a clash of falling saucepans from the alcove. Michael shrieks.
Marker turns to Con. “You may be right,” he concedes. Marker starts out, saying to Gannon as he passes, “I’ll send you my bill.” Nobody hears him. He shrugs and goes.
The shrieks and crashes continue from the alcove. Mr Gannon, Mrs Dunphy, Con and Barney look on with an almost academic interest. Moira, meanwhile, is withdrawn, almost in tears.
* * *
The next day, Marker hears a knock on his office door. It’s Moira. Marker looks apprehensive as she comes in. “You needn’t worry,” she tells him. “I’m on me own. They’ve all gone home – the four of them.” She looks at the client chair, longingly. “Can I sit down?” she asks. “I’m jaded. Had to hoof it all the way over – didn’t even have me bus fare.” Marker gestures to the chair. She sits in it, gratefully.
“The… four of them?” asks Marker.
Moira nods. “Mm. Me ma and Willie and the oul’ fella and Mick.”
“Mick?” says Marker, surprised.
“Yeah,” replies Moira. “Would you have a cig?”
Marker keeps a supply of cigarettes – just for his guests. He produces one and hands it over. “They brought him with them?”
Moira takes it. “Well, they had to,” she explains. “I mean, if he’s back in his old job, then he can’t have run off with me, can he?” Marker lights her cigarette and she continues. “He’ll be there, heaving coffins into the hearse with the oul’ fella slappin’ him on the back – so who’s to say he took his auntie off to England! I am his auntie, you know.”
“True,” says Marker.
“The oul’ fella’s a great man for cuttin’ his losses. That’s why he’s got rid of me. Being deserted is one thing – but having adultery in the family, that’s no joke.”
“No,” agrees Marker.
“I thought you might lend me the fare to London.”
Marker raises an eyebrow. “Did you?”
“It’s the least you could do,” reckons Moira. “You’re the one that caused all the trouble.”
“Maybe you ought to go home,” suggests Marker.
Moira shakes her head, firmly. “Oh, no. No, thanks! Once was bad enough. I’d never get up the gumption to run off a second time. I know I was an eejit to marry him. But everyone kept at me till I thought maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. A girl can carry fussiness to extremes. But on the first night –”
Marker grimaces. “I’d rather not hear.”
Moira tells him anyway. “It was the noise. I had me eyes shut, and I couldn’t place the noise for a minute – a sort of tinkle. Then I recognised it. It was the sound of teeth dropping into a glass. That was when I knew I was right – or wrong.” Marker sighs. “I’d love a cuppa,” Moira announces. Marker rises, but she stops him. “I’ll make it.” She moves to the curtained-off kitchen area. “Through here, is it?” Marker nods. “Were y’ever in London?” asks Moira, as she disappears behind the curtain.
“Born there,” replies Marker.
In the kitchen, Moira finds the tea things. “What’s it like?” she asks, then immediately changes her mind. “No, don’t tell me.” She smiles to herself as she fills the kettle. “I’m goin’ to have great gas, the time o’ me life – and I’ll be as fussy as hell. I only hope they’re all ready for me!”
She doesn’t see Marker sadly shaking his head at the thought of it.
The hatch opens and Marker comes down the companionway. He addresses Michael’s voice through the gloom. “Mind if I come in? We’ve already met – name of Marker.”
“What do you want?” demands Michael. “Go away. Clear off. Leave me alone.”
“I’m going to,” Marker promises, “just as soon as… What kind of light do you have in here?” He bumps his head against a lantern. “Hold on. I think I’ve found it.” He takes out some matches and lights the lantern. Moira, who’s been watching him fearfully from deep in the bedclothes, snuggles down even further.
“You have no business here,” says Michael. “Get out. Buzz off.”
Moira hisses to Michael, “What are you telling him for? Telling is no good. Put him out.”
Marker hears the voice and turns to Moira, surprised. “Good evening! How are you?”
Moira ducks down again. “Don’t you talk to her,” snaps Michael.
“I dropped in to tell you to put some clothes on,” Marker informs him. “You’re having visitors.”
Michael reacts with alarm. “Visitors? Who says?”
“I was hired as a kind of gun dog,” explains Marker. “All I’m supposed to do is find you and mark the spot with a big fat ‘X’. But there are two very sweet old people coming around here –”
“Two?”
“Your parents.”
“Parents? I haven’t got any parents. I’m an –”
Marker completes the sentence. “An orphan. I heard.”
“He is!” says Moira.
Marker nods. “An orphan who blows up statues. You know, I keep meeting liars – they come with the job. But you’re pretty good. You ought to think of turning professional.”
Moira speaks up again. “Michael is –”
“It’s all the same to me,” Marker tells her. “But these old people will be here in a few minutes, and I don’t think they’d like to find the apple of their eye cohabitating. So that gives you just enough time to get out of here.”
Michael agrees. “He’s right, Moira. Maybe you’d better –”
“I’ll do no such thing,” says Moira.
“We’ll only be accused of something we didn’t do.”
Moira rounds on him, viciously. “And whose fault is that? Honest to God, you’d think it was something to boast about, dragging a girl all this distance, and for sweet damn-all.” She turns to Marker. “Oh, it’s true what they say, Mr Marker – men were deceivers ever.” She struggles out of her bunk. “Turn your back.”
“I was just leaving,” Marker assures her. To Michael, he says, “When they get here, I’ll bring them upstairs to your friends’ place. That’ll give you time to get dressed.” He sees the stricken look on Michael’s face. “Don’t worry.” He nods in Moira’s direction. “I won’t mention her if you don’t.” He ascends the companionway. Michael calls out to him to wait. Marker pays no attention. He disappears out of sight.
Moira dons an overcoat over her nightdress. “If they’re going to follow us all over the shop, then we may as well face them and have it over with,” she reckons.
Michael doesn’t share her confidence. “They’ll murder me,” he whimpers.
“Well,” says Moira, scathingly, “aren’t you easily murdered!”
“I suppose I’d better put me clothes on,” he decides.
“Nobody’s stopping you.”
Michael gets out of bed. “Don’t look.”
Moira rolls her eyes. “Well, sufferin’ saints!” She turns her back. Michael climbs down from his bunk.
* * *
Marker waits at the front steps of the tenement. A taxi draws up, and the Gannons get out. Marker greets them and leads them into the house. A moment later, another taxi arrives. Willie gets out of this one. Then he, too, enters the building.
* * *
Con and Barney are sitting dejectedly on Con’s bed as Marker returns. “I brought the secret polis,” he announces. He calls behind him. “This way.”
The Gannons follow him in. Mr Gannon strides to the centre of the room and unleashes a ferocious roar. “Now!” Then he breaks off and looks around. “Where is he?” He points at Con. “That’s not him.” Gannon turns to Marker, angrily. “You said you had him. Where is he?”
Marker is startled by Gannon’s sudden change of character. “He’s not far. He –”
Gannon cuts him off. “‘Not far’?” he bellows. “What good is ‘not far’? I want him here!”
“Where’s he hidin’?” demands Mrs Gannon, just as aggressively. “What hole’s he crawled into?”
“I left him to get dressed,” says Marker, still taking in the unexpected transformation of the hitherto docile Gannons. Buying himself time to think, he introduces Barney and Con. “These are friends of his. They –”
“You mean he knows we’re here?” Gannon interrupts. “You told him?”
“Yes,” replies Marker.
“Oh, you eejit!” cries Mrs Gannon. “He’ll give us the slip. He’ll be out and away.”
Marker looks at her. “I don’t think he’ll do that, Mrs Gannon. Why should he? After all, you and Mr Gannon are his parents – you haven’t come here to harm him.” He watches her closely for her reaction.
“God forbid!” exclaims Gannon, quickly reverting to his amiable old self. “Do you hear him, Agnes?”
Mrs Gannon follows his example. “Harm Michael?” she replies. “Such a thing to say! I’d sooner cut off me right hand.”
“But we’re dying to see him, Mr Marker,” claims Gannon. “The missus is that excited – look at her.”
“Yes, I am,” says Marker. “Mr Gannon, why do you call your wife Agnes?”
Gannon frowns. “What?”
“In the pub earlier on, you called her Alice.”
“I did not.”
“Yes, you did,” insists Marker. “Alice.”
“Ah, no,” smiles Gannon. “You misheard me. Do you think I wouldn’t know me own wife’s name?”
“Does she know yours?”
“Certainly she knows mine.” Gannon turns to the old woman. She hesitates, panic-stricken. Gannon has to help her out. “It’s John.”
“Yes!” agrees Mrs Gannon, quick as a flash.
“Full marks,” says Marker, sarcastically.
“Now, look,” says Gannon, keen to change the subject, “we’ve had enough of your trick-acting. Never mind who’s called what – that’s none of your business. You’re being paid to find us that young blackguard –”
“Blackguard, Mr Gannon?” asks Marker, in mock surprise.
“Now, where is he?”
“Why do you want him?”
“I told you –”
Marker shakes his head. “Lies, Mr Gannon. I’ve had enough lies to choke a sewer.” He points in turn at Mr Gannon, Mrs Gannon and Con, before returning to the Gannons. “From you and you and you, and that son of yours who claims he’s an orphan. Everywhere, nothing but tall stories.” He pauses, realising the adjective is inadequate. “Tall? They’re in orbit! Mr Gannon, I’m not too particular about the jobs I take, but I like to know why – even at the risk of cramping your talent for inventiveness.”
Con giggles, approvingly. “That’s good.” Barney suggests that he make some tea. “Yeah!” agrees Con, wholeheartedly.
Marker continues to interrogate Gannon. “Tell me, do you do it just for fun, or is there a reason? I’d like to know.” There’s a pause. The Gannons exchange uneasy glances. “I bet you two aren’t even related.”
“How dare you!” protests Mrs Gannon. “We are so!”
Gannon begins to say, “She’s me –” Then he hesitates and looks to his associate for approval.
“You may as well tell him,” says the old woman, “not that it’s any of his business.”
“Mrs Dunphy is me… mother-in-law,” reveals Gannon. Marker looks dumbfounded. Gannon continues. “A decent, respectable woman.”
“And an unfortunate one,” adds Mrs Gannon – or rather, Mrs Dunphy.
“And your wife…?” prompts Marker.
“Oh, a lovely wife I’ve got,” replies Gannon, his affability quickly giving way to cynicism. “She ran off with that pup of a nephew of mine, where do you think she is!”
“Is she still with him?” demands Mrs Dunphy.
Marker gradually puts the pieces together. “Do you mean that girl is –?”
Con interrupts, affronted. “He told us he was married to her!”
Marker finishes his sentence: “– your wife?”
“And my daughter, God pity me,” adds Mrs Dunphy. “Any other girl would give their eye teeth to have Mr Gannon for a husband, but not that rip!”
“And Michael Gannon is your nephew?” says Marker, to Gannon.
Gannon nods, ruefully. “I brought him up like me own, took him into the business – a goin’ concern with two hearses and twelve mournin’ coaches – and this is me thanks!”
“Mr Gannon, I’d have taken your case whatever the reason – but don’t you think you might have told me?”
“Told you what?”
“The truth,” replies Marker, keeping his temper in check.
“And have everybody know our business?” asks Gannon, appalled.
Mrs Dunphy turns to him. “He must think we’re a bit simple.”
“No,” says Marker, sincerely. “No, I don’t think that.”
“Anyway,” says Gannon, “you can see why we’re so –” He stops as the door opens, and Michael and Moira come in. For a moment, there’s silence – but only for a moment. “There he is,” declares Gannon. “There’s the pair of them!”
Moira is the first of them to speak. “Mick has something to tell you.”
“Oh, has he?” asks Gannon, heavily.
Mrs Dunphy lays into her daughter. “You brazen rip! How dare you make a show of us! I’ll whip the skin off you –”
Gannon waves her to silence. “Quiet, now… quiet,” he says, ominously. “Michael has something to say to us.” He waits.
Moira pushes a terror-stricken Michael forward. “Go on,” she says. “Tell them.”
“Yes,” smiles Gannon, dangerously. “Tell us.”
Michael speaks, falteringly. “Moira and me are very… very sorry for all the trouble you’ve been put to. We…” He hesitates.
“Say it,” urges Moira. “What are you afraid of?”
Michael continues. “And we hope you won’t be too… uh…” He looks helplessly at Moira.
Moira looks exasperated. “Honest to God, you’re useless!” To the others, she says, “Mick and me want to tell you, you’re wasting your time. It’s no good following us – we’re staying the way we are.” She turns to Michael. “Aren’t we?” Michael doesn’t say anything. Moira nudges him. “Tell them.”
Michael mutters, unenthusiastically, “We’re staying the way we are.”
“You adulterous rip,” cries Mrs Dunphy. “You’re coming home with us.”
“No, I’m not,” states Moira, firmly. “And neither is Mick.”
Mrs Dunphy snorts a bitter laugh. “Him? Who wants him? But you are. The whole town thinks you’re in Dublin with your uncle an’ aunt – and you’re not going to make a liar of me.”
Now Marker scoffs with derision. “A what?”
Mrs Dunphy ignores him. “And poor Mr Gannon was so good to you.”
“Goodness isn’t everything, Mammy,” replies Moira. “I love Mick, and he loves me.”
“Does he?” asks Gannon. “We’ll see about that.” He goes to the door and calls out, “Are you there, Willie?”
“Who?” asks Michael, in sudden terror. Willie lumbers in. His eyes light up when he sees Michael.
“What’s he doing here?” asks Moira.
Willie addresses Gannon. “I waited outside like you said.”
“There’s the good boy,” says Mrs Dunphy, proudly. “Willie’s me eldest,” she explains to Marker.
Marker nods expressionlessly to the hulking giant. “Evening.”
Gannon indicates Michael. “There you are, Willie. You said you wanted to get your hands on him.”
Happily, Willie advances on Michael. Moira steps in between them. “Willie Dunphy,” she commands, “just you leave him alone.”
“Keep him away from me!” pleads Michael.
“Don’t you lay a finger on him,” Moira continues. “Now, stop! Willie!” She cries out as Willie lifts her bodily out of the way, then renews his advance upon Michael, who continues to back away.
“Don’t touch me,” cries Michael. “Stay away!”
Marker decides to intervene. He moves briskly across to Willie. “Now, look,” he says, in a deliberately calm tone. “Why don’t we all just –” Willie pushes him, quite impersonally, aside. Marker lands on the bed from which Con and Barney are watching the proceedings, drinking tea. Michael backs towards the cooking alcove. Marker turns to Con and Barney. “I thought you were friends of his.”
“He’s no friend of ours, mate,” replies Con. “Lyin’ to us – livin’ with a married woman an’ lettin’ Barney an’ me damn our souls by providin’ the bedclothes? No thanks! Let the louser fight his own battles.”
As Michael disappears into the cooking alcove, he cries out to Gannon. “Mr Gannon, don’t let him hit me! I didn’t mean it. It was her fault. She made me. I didn’t want anything to do with her, but she wouldn’t leave me alone.” Moira reacts to this with a look of stunned disbelief. “She was always at me,” continues Michael, “tryin’ to put ideas into me head. I don’t like her. I don’t want her. Don’t let him hit me!” There’s a clash of falling saucepans from the alcove. Michael shrieks.
Marker turns to Con. “You may be right,” he concedes. Marker starts out, saying to Gannon as he passes, “I’ll send you my bill.” Nobody hears him. He shrugs and goes.
The shrieks and crashes continue from the alcove. Mr Gannon, Mrs Dunphy, Con and Barney look on with an almost academic interest. Moira, meanwhile, is withdrawn, almost in tears.
* * *
The next day, Marker hears a knock on his office door. It’s Moira. Marker looks apprehensive as she comes in. “You needn’t worry,” she tells him. “I’m on me own. They’ve all gone home – the four of them.” She looks at the client chair, longingly. “Can I sit down?” she asks. “I’m jaded. Had to hoof it all the way over – didn’t even have me bus fare.” Marker gestures to the chair. She sits in it, gratefully.
“The… four of them?” asks Marker.
Moira nods. “Mm. Me ma and Willie and the oul’ fella and Mick.”
“Mick?” says Marker, surprised.
“Yeah,” replies Moira. “Would you have a cig?”
Marker keeps a supply of cigarettes – just for his guests. He produces one and hands it over. “They brought him with them?”
Moira takes it. “Well, they had to,” she explains. “I mean, if he’s back in his old job, then he can’t have run off with me, can he?” Marker lights her cigarette and she continues. “He’ll be there, heaving coffins into the hearse with the oul’ fella slappin’ him on the back – so who’s to say he took his auntie off to England! I am his auntie, you know.”
“True,” says Marker.
“The oul’ fella’s a great man for cuttin’ his losses. That’s why he’s got rid of me. Being deserted is one thing – but having adultery in the family, that’s no joke.”
“No,” agrees Marker.
“I thought you might lend me the fare to London.”
Marker raises an eyebrow. “Did you?”
“It’s the least you could do,” reckons Moira. “You’re the one that caused all the trouble.”
“Maybe you ought to go home,” suggests Marker.
Moira shakes her head, firmly. “Oh, no. No, thanks! Once was bad enough. I’d never get up the gumption to run off a second time. I know I was an eejit to marry him. But everyone kept at me till I thought maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. A girl can carry fussiness to extremes. But on the first night –”
Marker grimaces. “I’d rather not hear.”
Moira tells him anyway. “It was the noise. I had me eyes shut, and I couldn’t place the noise for a minute – a sort of tinkle. Then I recognised it. It was the sound of teeth dropping into a glass. That was when I knew I was right – or wrong.” Marker sighs. “I’d love a cuppa,” Moira announces. Marker rises, but she stops him. “I’ll make it.” She moves to the curtained-off kitchen area. “Through here, is it?” Marker nods. “Were y’ever in London?” asks Moira, as she disappears behind the curtain.
“Born there,” replies Marker.
In the kitchen, Moira finds the tea things. “What’s it like?” she asks, then immediately changes her mind. “No, don’t tell me.” She smiles to herself as she fills the kettle. “I’m goin’ to have great gas, the time o’ me life – and I’ll be as fussy as hell. I only hope they’re all ready for me!”
She doesn’t see Marker sadly shaking his head at the thought of it.