Like all poor, working-class folk, Blackie O’Neill was always preoccupied with food at some time or other during the day, with no exception.
His belly rumbled and he felt the first hunger pangs begin around noon or twelve-thirty – the time of the midday meal, which he and everyone he knew referred to as dinner, but Cook at the big house and the Lassiters called lunch or luncheon. However, no matter what it was called, it was usually the main meal of the day. He and his cousins were convinced that only the aristocracy indulged themselves dining in the evening as well, with Cook working all day sometimes on different courses, or even another meal called supper.
In a sense, Blackie had been lucky. Growing up in North Kerry, there had never been enough to eat for any of them, but he’d had several benefactors who had small titbits to give him – Mrs O’Malley and Cook from Lord Lassiter’s mansion at the top of the hill. His cousin Siobhan sometimes brought something home with her, sent by the generous cook. Even before Blackie lived with his cousins, Siobhan had tried to share food with his family, much to his sister’s gratitude. Bronagh was unwell for a while and did not have a big appetite, but he was much relieved when she managed to eat something, and he could see that she had enjoyed it.
Now, on this cool Friday afternoon, he was seated at the table in Uncle Patrick’s parlour, where, for the first time in his life, it appeared that food was plentiful. His uncle was in the tiny kitchen with Aunt Eileen. The two of them were putting food on the three plates. Blackie’s nose twitched at the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen. His mouth watered, and he could hardly wait to eat.
Then there it was, the plate being placed in front of him by his aunt, who said, ‘Tuck in, Blackie. I hope you’ll enjoy it.’
‘Oh, I will, Aunt Eileen, sure and I will. My mouth is watering already.’
Eileen smiled as she sat down next to him, and then accepted her own plate from her husband. Patrick returned with a jug of gravy, which he placed in the middle of the table. Looking at his nephew, he said, ‘There are more potatoes and onions in the oven, if you want a second helping, lad.’
‘Thanks, Uncle Pat, and ye too, Aunt,’ he answered and picked up his knife and fork. With a small and rather shy smile for him, he said, ‘I’ve only ever had sausage once before. What is it made of, Aunt Eileen?’
Startled though she was to hear this, she said quickly, ‘Minced-up pork, that’s pushed into a thin skin. So it’s called pork sausage, but there is beef sausage, too. They make a tasty meal like this with onions, mashed potatoes and gravy. That does give it a really special flavour.’
Blackie nodded and munched on the sausage, savouring it, his face filled with happiness. He went on eating, but slowly, trying to be polite, not putting too much into his mouth at once. Oh yes, he decided, I’ll have this any time my aunt makes it … she’s the best cook in the world.
The three of them were all hungry and, although they ate carefully, not wanting to look greedy to finish and have seconds, they were mostly silent. It just so happened they were lost in their own thoughts, preoccupied.
Patrick was reminding himself to go to the workshop after dinner to pay the men their wages for the week. He also needed to write that note to Mrs Burton, to tell her he couldn’t mend her window sashes. That was most important. He had to avoid the housekeeper.
Eileen was wondering how Blackie had managed to stay healthy and grow tall when he had lived in Ireland. It was obvious to her he’d had more food than some because of his height and build, and yet in the two days he had been here, he had always appeared to be very hungry. It struck her then that he’d probably filled up on cheap staples like potatoes, bread and … bread … and more bread. That seemed to be the main food of the truly poor. A chunk of bread and a trickle of jam or treacle, and water.
She had been born in North Kerry herself, but she had been brought to Leeds by her parents when she was only two years old. Her father, Mike Loughlin, and her mother, Dervla, had gone to Yorkshire, and to Leeds specifically, to work alongside Mike’s elder brother, Cornelius, known to most as Con, or Connie. He had left Ireland years before and had been trained as a mechanical engineer.
Eventually he had opened his own small shop and done well. He was a glutton for work, had immense concentration, focus and strength. He had never married, because he had never met the right girl, even though he was a bit of a womanizer and genuinely liked girls.
Yet true love had eluded him. Still, he enjoyed his bachelor life, was gregarious and generous, and helped his brother to become successful by having him also train as an engineer. Eventually Connie had made Mike his partner in the machine shop.
Eileen, her mind whirling with thoughts of her family, realized at that precise moment that the Loughlins had had luck on their side. She also knew, deep down inside, that her Uncle Connie had always had a soft spot for her. Perhaps even a yen. She let that peculiar thought slide away and buried it.
Blackie slowed down, began to eat the last few mouthfuls a little less quickly. He had loved the meal. It had been a feast, but he had cleared his plate before his aunt and uncle. He glanced at Eileen surreptitiously, thinking how kind she was in the way she had divided the fourth sausage between his uncle and himself. She was a good woman.
He switched his thoughts to the following day. Saturday. Tomorrow Uncle Patrick was taking him to Leeds to have ‘the grand tour’, as Uncle Pat had called it. In 1893, six years ago, Leeds had been named a city, because of its size, its growing industries, shopping arcades, tram system, parks and its cathedral. Blackie thought of the other cathedral he wanted to see for himself one day. It was in York, and it was very, very old … maybe almost eight hundred years old. The pictures he had seen of it had captivated him. He would go, he promised himself, when he was rich.
Blackie sat at the desk in his bedroom, painstakingly writing letters. He had promised to let his cousins know he had arrived safely, as well as Mrs O’Malley and Cook.
In her thoughtful way, Siobhan had given him a packet of notepaper and envelopes when he was packing to leave, plus a sixpenny bit ‘for the stamps’, she had explained.
Once the short letters were finished, notes really, he sat back in the chair, glancing around the room. It was small, there were no two ways about that, but he could not get over the wonderful thing of the privacy … he didn’t have to share it. And despite its small size, it had plenty of space for his few clothes, his only possessions, except for his book about the Tudors, given to him by Father O’Donovan before he had left North Kerry. He truly treasured that.
During their walk around Upper Armley, earlier in the day, Patrick had pointed out Armley Library and told him how he could get a library card so that he could take out books to read. Blackie, with his usual string of questions, knew all about the library system in a few minutes. He couldn’t wait to join. The thought of shelves filled with hundreds of books thrilled him no end. He was certain he would find some about architecture and engineering, history and maybe even building work. He couldn’t get enough of them.
He felt full for once and relaxed. Walking across the room in two strides, he lay down on the bed, sighing with pleasure at the feeling of comfort this gave him. He was warm enough and he couldn’t believe his luck.
Well, here he was at last, in Leeds with Uncle Pat, and all set and ready to go. On Monday morning. He was happy. Work appealed to him. He enjoyed being busy, and he knew he was lucky to have a relative who was willing to take him into his business as an apprentice and also let him share his home.
Although the house on Town Street was small and simply furnished, it was neat and clean, and had an air of welcome about it.
He had a lot of admiration for his uncle, not only for the things he had done and had achieved, but also the way he carried himself, his good manners and his inherent kindness. In certain ways he reminded Blackie of his mother. This was partially to do with his colouring, the blond-reddish hair, and his handsome looks … Blackie thought his mother had been a female copy of Uncle Pat. He knew he got his Black Irish looks from his father’s side of the family, not the Kennedys. Thinking of his mother provoked a familiar wave of grief: he was alone in the world. But now he had his uncle and this new chance at a better life.
His thoughts suddenly ran amok and finally settled on the future. He knew he would be trained as an apprentice first, but when would he start working as a navvy? He thought that would be the second step. That was the work that drew so many men from Ireland.
His uncle had told him ages ago that building canals and railways was a tough job, and he wouldn’t consider it until he, Blackie, was older. They would obviously be embarking on this stage of his training in a couple of years, seemingly because of the money.
Blackie smiled inwardly, realizing – when he thought of making money – that that particular word was always writ large, in capital letters, in his mind.
Building. That was what he aimed to do one day. Building beautiful houses for those who wanted one and could afford it. It was his dream, and he would strive to make it come true.