SENGA SOFT FURNISHINGS LIMITED and its new Managing Director, Mark Browne, had been very good to each other. In the years following former owner Mr Wise’s demise, Mark had not just reorganised, but had completely refurbished the factory. Gone were the old belt-driven bandsaws and chain-driven drills. The factory now boasted a complete range of high-tech, compact, fast and accurate machines. The new machinery was essential, as the factory now turned out furniture in numbers greater than even Mark had anticipated. The client list for Senga Furnishings now read like a who’s who in the department store directory of Ireland and the United Kingdom. Mark’s flair for design and his hard work were handsomely rewarded with a new semi-detached home in Baldoyle, just a mile or so from Dublin’s beautiful golden coastline. Strangely enough, Mark remained the only Browne to work at Senga Furnishings. Each of the boys and Cathy decided to go their own way in life, to strike out and do their own thing, an independent streak they had all inherited from their mother.
* * *
Seven days after the birth of his child, Mark arrived at the Rotunda Hospital in the company Ford Cortina to take Betty, babe-in-arms, home to what was usually a peaceful house. Not today, however! The entire Browne clan, along with Mrs Collins, were waiting at Mark’s house. The pink-faced little child with the big brown eyes was greeted with a barrage of Oohs and Aahs as ten pairs of eyes ogled him.
What began as a family reception for the new child soon turned into a celebration, and by early evening had turned into a noisy party. So much so that Betty and Mrs Collins decided to slip away with the baby, and the new child spent his first night out of hospital in his Nanna Collins’s flat while the Browne clan partied on into the early hours.
In the week since the birth there was not a conversation in the Browne household that did not eventually turn to what the first Browne grandchild should be named. Agnes was plugging for Gerard, a name she had wanted for Mark when he was born, but had lost the battle to her husband Redser. Dermot fancied James, after the soul singer James Brown. Between the rest of the family names like Jason, Peter, William, and Rory’s choice of Gabriel, received various peaks of popularity. Of course, the final choice would be down to Mark and Betty. This is why the morning following the child’s homecoming Agnes stared across the breakfast table at Dermot with a shocked expression.
‘Arrow? They can’t be fuckin’ serious.’
Agnes was stunned by Dermot’s revelation. She filled the kettle, repeating the name, her head still woozy from the cider the night before. She had come down twice during the night to take huge mouthfuls from the pint of cool water she kept in the fridge. Each time she opened the door the light from the fridge seemed like a prison search light, and her head rattled. She had been feeling a little better until Dermot brought up the subject of the child’s name.
‘That’s what Mark told me,’ he confirmed.
‘Yeh can’t call a baby Arrow – he’s not a fuckin’ Apache, for God’s sake.’ Agnes was incredulous.
The two sat in silence. The element in the kettle began to heat and the water surrounding it began to complain. Agnes spoke her thoughts aloud again.
‘Arrow Browne. In school he’ll be registered as: Browne, Arrow! Good God, it sounds like somethin’ a cowboy might find up his arse!’
Dermot laughed but Agnes glared at him; she hadn’t meant to be funny. So he returned to silent contemplation, and this is how Rory found them when he came down.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
It was Dermot who answered. ‘Mark and Betty are callin’ the baby Arrow.’
‘Ha! That’s great. If he grows up and marries Bo Derek we’ll have a Bow and Arrow in the family,’ Rory joked.
The two young men burst into laughter.
‘It’s not funny.’ Agnes brought the laughter to a halt. ‘Arrow Browne! What’ll people think? Can you imagine the christening – the priest pourin’ the water and sayin’: I christen this child Arrow. I’ll be mortified.’
* * *
The christening day was a great affair. After the church service everybody headed down to the city centre to Foley’s pub, the venue for virtually every Browne family celebration for twenty-seven years. Mr Foley had prepared cocktail sausages and little squares of cheese on cocktail sticks. Everybody was dressed in their Sunday best and after the preliminary niceties the evening broke into a singsong. Agnes sang ‘The Wonder of You’, and accused the band of being three beats behind her. The whole old Jarro neighbourhood, where the Brownes had spent their childhood, was having a great time. Mark moved from table to table, thanking everyone for coming and for the lovely christening gifts. He spied his mother at the bar buying a drink for herself and her boyfriend Pierre, and made his way over to her.
‘There yeh are, Ma.’
Agnes spun around on hearing her eldest son’s voice. ‘Ah Mark, love.’ She gave him a huge hug.
‘Enjoying yourself, Mammy?’ He asked, chuckling.
‘What’s the giggle for?’ Agnes asked with one eyebrow raised.
‘You and the baby’s name.’ Mark began to laugh. Agnes reddened a little. ‘Oh yes, well, how d’yeh pronounce it again?’
‘Aaron from the Bible – I love it!’
Agnes was thrilled. Anything was better than Arrow. In the background a glass was being banged off a table and Agnes and Mark turned to see Pierre standing and holding his hand in the air for silence.
‘Here we go again, another fuckin’ speech,’ Agnes moaned.
Mark just laughed. ‘Ah leave him to it, Ma, he enjoys them.’
Silence fell over the room.
‘I would like to make a speech,’ Pierre began, although it came out like, ‘Ah wood lik to mik a spitch,’ as his French accent was still very thick.
There was a great cheer from the crowd. When the room fell into silence again Pierre went on.
‘All of today you have congratulated Betty, the new mother, Mark, the new father, and of course Aaron, the newest child of the Browne family.’
This was met with a huge cheer. Pierre again held his hand in the air. ‘But now I would like to propose a toast.’
Buster Brady turned to Dermot and asked, ‘What’s a fuckin’ tist?’
‘Toast, he means a toast – shut up, Buster.’
Buster shut up, Pierre went on. ‘To the beautiful Agnes Browne.’ All the glasses were raised and Agnes beamed a smile, but Pierre wasn’t finished. ‘Welcome, Granny!’
There was a loud cheer. Agnes held her smile, but through her teeth she said, ‘Sit the fuck down, Pierre.’
Pierre did and as he did he took Agnes’s arm and pushed her up to acknowledge the toast. She raised her glass and looked around the room. There they all were, Agnes’s little orphans, all adults now. Her entire brood, except for poor Frankie – but at this moment Agnes wouldn’t let herself think about her one stray son who had come to a no-good end. Mark settled and married to Betty and with a beautiful young son; Rory with his friend Dino, both now top hair stylists at Wash & Blow; Trevor, one year to go in art college, and soon to be a qualified graphic artist; Simon, now head porter in St Patrick’s Hospital; Cathy there with her fiancé Mick O’Leary; and Dermot there with …? Suddenly Agnes’s expression changed. The crowd roared in unison, ‘Congratulations, Granny!’ and everyone tossed their drink back. The roar and the action of the drinking served to hide Agnes’s change of expression.
What had caused Agnes to look worried was that Dermot was there with Mary Carter. Agnes knew the Carter family well – Jack Carter, Mary’s father, had left their home in Townsend Street one morning ten years ago and was never seen again; Helen Carter proceeded to drink herself into oblivion and the children reared themselves on the streets of Dublin. Agnes felt sorry for the family, particularly the children, but her pity didn’t extend to accepting Mary Carter, now a known junkie, and, Agnes suspected, a drug pusher, into the Browne family. She had warned Dermot weeks ago, but he had said it was just a casual affair and it would come to nothing at all.
Dermot had noticed his mother’s change of expression and when at last he caught her eye he gave her a smile and a wink, indicating that she should not worry, everything was okay. Agnes’s tension eased and she returned his smile.
It was Dino Doyle, Rory’s friend, who noticed how sombre Trevor had been all evening. When he said it to Rory, Rory sought out Trevor in an effort to find out what was bothering him. He found him standing beneath the switched-off television, resting his elbow on the cigarette machine, alone.
‘Hi, Trevor, great isn’t it?’ Rory beamed a smile at Trevor.
‘Yeh, great.’
‘Are you all right, Trevor? You seem a bit down.’
Trevor brightened slightly. ‘No, I’m grand, Rory, just a little tired – yeh know, exams comin’ up and all that.’
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No, you’re all right, Rory, you go on back to Dino. You don’t want to leave him roamin’ around here on his own – he might find somebody else!’
‘If he does they’ll be holdin’ a white stick.’ Both the brothers burst out laughing and Rory kissed Trevor on the cheek and went back to Dino. Trevor took another sip from his drink and his thoughts once again turned to Maria Nicholson.
Trevor was by far the quietest and shyest of the Brownes. Although as an artist his work was tremendously expressive, when i t came to communicating verbally, especially on a one-to-one basis, his mind went blank, his mouth went dry and he would always beat a retreat as quickly as possible. In the past it had not been a real problem for Trevor as he was quite happy with his own company, but lately it had become the source of great pain. The cause of the pain was Maria Nicholson.
Maria had joined the College of Art and Design, where Trevor attended, just one year ago. She had transferred there from Vancouver in Canada. Although she was Irish-born, from Limerick city in fact, her father was a design engineer specialising in bridges, and his work took him all over the world. Wherever Daddy had travelled, the family had travelled. Maria was thrilled to be back in Ireland, and although a late student when entering fourth year, she was readily accepted by all. She attended only two classes with Trevor – Art History and Graphic Design. But from the very first moment Trevor Browne had laid eyes on her he knew he was in love. Trevor made several attempts to speak to Maria but each time not a single word would come out from his mouth. She would tilt her head sideways, tap him on the shoulder and say, ‘Look, I’ll talk to you later, okay?’ and be gone.
So Trevor had made a decision. He would communicate with her through his art. One day during a free class, Trevor took a length of artist’s canvas and cut it into fourteen squares, each square two and a half inches by two and a half inches. At home in his bedroom he set the first tiny canvas on an easel and began to paint with oils. His plan was to paint a miniature copy of works of great artists, signing each miniature with the first letter of the artist’s name. Each letter would correspond to a letter in Maria Nicholson’s name. Each miniature took two weeks to complete, and as each one was completed he made a little frame for it, parcelled it and left it somewhere that Maria would find it. Tied to the tiny parcel was a tiny card reading, ‘For you, Maria.’
By the day of the christening Trevor had already completed miniatures of paintings by Monet, Albers, Rembrandt, Ingres, Allston, Neel, Israels, Constable, Hockney, O’Keeffe and Lancret. He had just three to go – actually two and a half, for he was already halfway through ‘Mares and Foals’ by the English eighteenth-century painter George Stokes. Trevor had hoped that Maria would recognise his work and seek him out. The truth was she had been searching, going from student to student during classes in an effort to recognise the artist’s hand, but never once did she look over Trevor’s shoulder.
Trevor was brought out of his day-dreaming by a large slap on the back from a very drunk Dermot.
‘There yeh are, Trevor, great crack isn’t it?’ Dermot was dribbling at this stage. By Dermot’s side, as if stitched to his hip, stood Buster Brady – he too was three sheets to the wind. Dermot opened his arms wide to hug Trevor – always when Dermot had a few drinks he liked to hug everybody, especially his brothers.
From across the room Agnes watched her two sons hug, and she smiled. Pierre also saw the boys and glanced at Agnes’s happy face.
‘You are happy, Agnes, yes?’ he asked.
‘Sure, why wouldn’t I be, with all me family here together in one room?’ She took a mouthful from her glass of cider, and smiled again.
Little did Agnes Browne know that this night would be the last time she would see her entire family together. For fate and tragic coincidence were about to take a hand and scatter her brood to the four winds.