The fishing had not been good and the portion of the catch that James held onto for himself was barely enough to cover the shortfall for the following month’s rent. Mary took what little there was and set off for the early morning market in Dundalk. James pretended to walk home and waited until his wife had turned the bend in the road before doubling back and getting into his boat once more. Joseph White had agreed to help him row across the bay to Carlingford, where a group of men would be waiting for his arrival.
The two men rowed without speaking for a long time until James broke the silence.
“It was a blessing meeting that Robinson man at Mr. Harrington’s office this week. The money from the boat will feed my family and pay the rent until I have earned enough in England to send home,” said James.
“There’ll be more than enough. Surely you could have held onto your boat if you plan on going to England. You know the landlord would have waited for your rent, he has obliged his tenants before.”
“I need the money now, Joseph, for my uncle. Money talks, you know that yourself, and the more you have the louder it speaks. I was meant to overhear that conversation between Robinson and Mr. Harrington, about him looking for a boat. I’m telling you, it was fate.”
“We are only halfway there. Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Joseph, easing up on the oars.
“It’s not a case of what I want,” James replied sharply and changed the subject. “We could do with a bit of wind behind us, this boat needs at least three men to get anywhere fast.”
Joseph knew by his tone of voice that James did not want to speak about the task ahead, so he concentrated on his rowing, matching that of his friend’s. It wasn’t too long before the ruin of King John’s castle towering over Carlingford lough came into view. As they drew close to the pier a group of men waved at James and Joseph. The boat and its sail and tackle were closely examined, and after a lot of haggling a price was agreed upon. The two men who had purchased the boat between them offered to bring him as far as Dundalk in the vessel, but James declined, using an excuse about having some business in Carlingford to attend to. He couldn’t bear to get back into the boat knowing it was no longer his.
“If you don’t mind bringing me part of the way, I would be very grateful. I’m sure my friend can find his own way home,” said Joseph.
Having walked for half an hour, James accepted a seat on a cart that had pulled up alongside him. The elderly driver talked about everything from religion to politics for the entire journey. At times, James wondered if he might walk faster than the ass that was pulling them, but he was glad of the opportunity to think about the sorry task that lay ahead. The words of the old man next to him blended with the rhythmic sound of hooves as James became lost in his own thoughts.
When the cart finally stopped it was beside a store, near the centre of Dundalk, and James expressed his appreciation for the lift by leaving a coin in the old man’s hand as he shook it. It was only a ten minute walk to the prison where Pat McGrother had been held for the past three weeks. James’s feet became heavier with every step that brought him nearer to his uncle.
“The head constable is away for the day so I will let you in to see him,” the policeman on duty told James. “You are aware of his failing health, are you not?”
“I’m not blind, I can see it every time I am allowed to visit with him. Is there no mercy to be had for a sick old man?”
“Look, McGrother, do not take that tone with me. Personally, I find it hard to believe that you and your uncle would have enough intelligence between you to organize a large scale theft, the likes of which Constable Armstrong has stumbled upon. That is the only reason why I am allowing you this visit.”
James was not offended by the insult, he was far more upset by the remark made about his uncle’s health.
“Please excuse my bad manners, there was no call for me to speak like that to an officer of the Crown,” the young fisherman would have gotten down on his knees and begged for forgiveness if it was the only way of seeing his uncle.
“There’s no need to grovel, McGrother. Just don’t mention this visit to the head constable, or he’ll have my guts for garters,” replied the policeman, as he led James to the holding cells at the back of the building. “I’m afraid I cannot unlock the door. I have strict instructions that no visitors be allowed enter the prisoner’s cell, unless authorized by Constable Armstrong himself. As it is, I should never have brought you back here. You have five minutes and I will be waiting right over there,” he pointed to an area further along the corridor.
“Thank you, I’m much obliged,” James looked in through a tiny barred window in the centre of the thick wooden door.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, a heap of crumpled clothing in a dark corner opposite the door told James that his uncle was unaware of his visit. He called his name out three times before any movement could be seen and the face that looked up in response, chilled him to the bone.
“Uncle Pat, it’s me, James, your nephew. Can you come nearer, I have good news for you?”
The old man coughed and wheezed as he pulled himself into a standing position, pausing to lean against the cold stone wall. As he shuffled unsteadily towards the door, James became aware of the stench of body odour, and more. He poked his index finger through the bars and pointed to an upturned metal chamber pot on the floor next to the low wooden bed.
“Have you knocked over your pot?” asked James.
Pat looked in the direction being pointed out to him then turned to his nephew. The look of confusion on his face caused James to change the subject. He didn’t want to sacrifice any more of the precious minutes that were slipping by. The stains and smells attached to the old man’s clothing gave him the answer to his question.
Turning to speak to the waiting constable, James enquired about the last time his uncle had access to soap and clean water to wash himself.
“Prisoners are permitted to wash once a week, but he has refused to do so. He is only in a holding cell, in prison he would be forced to wash. I daresay we may have to do the same if the smell gets any worse.”
“James, have you come to fetch me home son?” Pat grabbed hold of his nephew’s fingers that were still poking through the bars.
The young man struggled to swallow a lump that had formed in his throat.
“Not today, Uncle Pat, but I promise I will have you out of here soon. I have the money to do that now and I’ll be paying a visit to Mr. Harrington as soon as I leave. You will be back home in your own bed before you know it.”
“What money? Why do you need money? Are ye behind in the rent?” Pat was getting anxious.
“No, not at all. We have more than enough for the rent. I got an advance on some walls that need repairing,” James was thinking fast, surprised at how lucid his uncle was at that moment.
“James, you have never lied to me, have you?” the old man paused, waiting for an answer. His face was pressed up close to the bars, his blue eyes clear and piercing.
“No, I have always been honest with you, even when I knew it would get me into trouble,” James could not tear his eyes away from his uncle’s face and his mouth went dry as he prepared himself for what was coming.
“You promised me you would wait for a year before making any decision about your boat,” sighed Pat. “That is where the money came from. Can you tell me I’m wrong, James?”
“I don’t care about the boat. As soon as we get you home I’ll be on my way to England. I can always get another one in a year or two,” they both knew that was unlikely.
The old fisherman squeezed his nephew’s hands and James had to hold his breath at the sickening smell of body waste drifting through the opening in the door. Both men had their fingers curled around the bars and James could not hold back the hot tears that stung his eyes. The look of disappointment on the face of someone who had been a father to him for the past ten years was too much to bear.
“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. Do you want me to try and buy it back? He seems decent enough, the man that bought my boat, he might return it if I explain how much it means to us,” James sniffed, wiping his nose across the cuff of his jacket, still holding onto the bars. He did not want to break the contact with the old, calloused fingers curled around his own.
Pat shook his head slowly as he withdrew his hands and turned to walk away. James heard him call out to Annie and knew that, once again, he had lost the old fisherman to whatever memory had taken over his senses at that moment.
Repeatedly calling out to his uncle made no difference and Pat continued to sit in the same corner James had found him in, muttering to himself. The policeman standing a little distance away, more to avoid the smell than to give the men privacy, cleared his throat. When James turned around he gestured that the time was up.
One last glance was enough to tell the young fisherman that his uncle was happier left to his memories. James felt it would be wrong to try and bring him back to the present, where he was a prisoner, separated from his family and disappointed with his nephew. He whispered through the bars that he would be back next day with good news. It was said more to console himself than his uncle, who was smiling and nodding his head as if deep in conversation with someone sitting beside him.
William Harrington drained the last few drops of tea from his china cup as he watched James McGrother cross the street below. He could tell how wretched the young man felt by the slump of his shoulders and the way he dragged his feet. Harrington sighed as he placed the cup back on its saucer. His father had warned him not to get personally involved in cases where there was no money to be earned, so he had been careful to choose only a few each year that he considered genuine. The McGrother case was one of them.
The sound of his clerk’s raised voice coming from the outer room snapped Harrington out of his thoughts. He opened his door to the sight of James McGrother wringing his cap in his hands, asking to have a quick word. “James, come in, come in. Have you news of your uncle?” the solicitor said, nodding to the clerk.
Pulling a chair out from a large mahogany desk for his client to sit on, Harrington offered to have a fresh pot of tea made.
“No thank you, Mr. Harrington. I won’t take up too much of your time. I just came to pay you for the work you have done on my behalf – and for what you are doing for my uncle. You are a good man, my family is much obliged to you.”
“Mr. McGrother, there is no need to give me any payment. Besides, your uncle is still a prisoner and you are not quite out of the water yourself, yet. I thought I made that clear the last time we spoke.”
James stood up and walked towards the window to survey the busy street two floors below. Saint Patrick’s Church, unfinished in spite of being built a decade before, stood opposite, majestically cathedral-like. Its completion had been interrupted by the same hungry, desperate years that had failed to drive James and Mary from their beloved land.
“Can I not offer to pay for the loss of the silverware?” James watched an elderly gentleman help an even older lady cross the street below, halting a carriage in the process.
“Even if you had the money, the case cannot be heard in petty sessions as it is a serious crime of grand larceny. As Lord Devereux is the complainant, he cannot act as magistrate. The case has been assigned to the quarterly sessions and your uncle must remain in custody until the trial.”
James spun around, “But that is months from now, Pat will never last till then. I have money. I sold my boat – here,” he produced a cloth bag from his pocket and emptied notes and coins onto the polished desktop.
William Harrington looked sadly at an amount of money that would barely cover the cost of his own expenses, were he to charge them.
“I’m sorry James, that won’t change anything. It may be useful for the payment of a fine, so keep it safe until then.”
He gathered the money scattered across his desk and placed it back into the bag, before handing it to James.
“It is difficult enough keeping you out of jail. Constable Armstrong is fully convinced of your guilt and is doing his best to build a case against you. I hope you have a bill of sale for your boat.”
“I do, Mr. Harrington,” James took the paper from his pocket and held it out.
“Good man. I will keep this safe for you, if you don’t mind. Would you like me to hold onto the money too?”
James thought for a moment, then tipped the bag upside down emptying some coins onto his palm and placing them in his pocket. “I’ll just take enough for two month’s rent and a bit to spare. I appreciate your concern Mr. Harrington and your kindness.”
The solicitor counted what was left in the bag and wrote a note recording the amount of money he would be holding for James. As he handed it to him, he assured the young man of his confidence that his uncle’s trial would have a favourable result. The solicitor hoped he sounded much more positive than he felt.