Delaney. Part VII

“The comings and goings of the Murder Factory are controlled quite carefully. I doubt very much you will be given passage!” Shelly snaps.

The Rourk boys have been in Drogheda a week now, visiting the Kelly family daily. Ash and Jackson have grown close to the Kelly’s, especially to their daughter Shelly with whom they have spent nearly every evening after her shift at the Murder Factory. They have delighted in keeping her up late into the evening at the pub in the Corporate Arms, downing pints of Goat Milk Stout. For her part, Shelly has not minded the distraction from the monotony of her existence. The late nights have made her workdays more tolerable though her nights much shorter, which has quickened her temper.

“I can’t even imagine why in God’s name you would want to visit the place.”

Ash is a little surprised by her terse response to what felt like an innocent suggestion about them visiting the place.

“Well, it’s just that you’ve mentioned your work a couple of times and I’m curious about the girl I saw on the ship over, Magdalene. I’d like to see what kind of a place she’s been sent to.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to see the place.” She says, lifting a frothy glass to her lips, her third tonight, and her words are beginning to droop like her eyelids. “The girl has struggled to keep pace with the others. She has bird legs. Don’t fret. She’ll either go to the floor because she can’t keep up or into the manager’s bed if he takes a liking to her.”

“That’s outrageous.” Ash is fearless in the face of Shelly’s increasingly sharp tongue. He so continues. “A couple of blokes from London can’t even come to see where we send our elderly and disabled. We might raise the standards around there.”

“Quit pestering our cousin, Ash.” Jackson inserts. “You can plainly see she’d prefer not to ask permission for us to visit.”

Shelly lifts a heavy head to Jackson and smiles. He’s caught up in her gaze then looks down to his drink.

“Just make something up. Tell the manager that we’re relatives come to see visit dear old infirm uncle and then introduce us to someone with dementia.” Ash presses.

“People who sign their relatives over to the place never visit. Most are glad for the burden to be put upon someone else.”

“Then tell them we’re inspectors from the Corporation, come to see how the Care Home meets the standards.”

“Standards?” Shelly scoffs, shaking her head, then begins laughing. Hard. Way harder than is warranted. She can hardly stop herself and buries her head in her arms on the counter, shoulders bouncing with her laughing fit.

“Look,” she says, pulling her head back up after her fit passes. “If you want to show up tomorrow and feed the manager some malarkey about inspections, be my guest. But you will not mention me. And if I see you two being hauled out by security, I may not be able to contain my laughter.”

“It’s settled, then.” Ash announces. “We’ll show up there tomorrow.”

“Ash!” Jackson chides.

“No, no. Go on. I want to see what happens.” Shelly slurs. “In all my years I’ve never seen anything like inspectors coming through. I’d like to see what they say before throwing you out on your arse.” And she looks as though she might descend into another laughing fit but manages to swallow it.

“I believe we should get our cousin back home.” Jackson says.

“I’ll manage, I’ll manage.” Shelly insists. But as she stands, she begins to wobble. It is one thing to sit at a barstool and boast that you have all your faculties and quite another to stand up and find out just how few remain.

Jackson leaps up and takes her arm. “I was planning to take a little stroll before bed at any rate. I’ll at least walk you out.”

“G’night.” Ash says.

Shelly mumbles something and takes advantage of Jackson’s elbow to anchor herself. They do not speak on the walk to the Kelly cottage and the cold mist revives her a little. Shelly has begun to sober up by the time they arrive at the door and she looks into Jackson’s face. The moon casts a glow about his head and Shelly leans in to kiss him with a good deal more than just cousinly affection. When Jackson returns to the room whistling gaily Ash, who has begun to drift to sleep, grunts at him to shut up.

The next day they plan their strategy. They have brought along two blank sheets of paper with City of London Corporation letterhead. Such letterhead is like currency in corporate colonies like Drogheda. Their mother had to pull in several large favors to obtain the closely guarded stationary. She wanted her sons to have the clout such letterhead would grant them to locate their Drogheda relatives. Since they only needed a single sheet to request the census records, they have one precious sheet of stationary left. Their note is brief:

To Whom it May Concern:

I request that you grant these City of London Corporation inspectors, Mr. Jackson Rourk and Mr. Ash Rourk, access to the Drogheda Care Home for the purposes of examining your facility. We are seeking to confirm your estimates of the labor output submitted to us along with assuring compliance to safety standards and working conditions for the residents.

Respectfully,
Sir Reginald Wilson
Lord Mayor and Chief Executive Officer
City of London Corporation

When the letter is presented by two well-dressed men speaking proper English without a drop of an Irish lilt to the front guard, he commences a flurry of awkward bows and ushers them hastily up a wide, tiled stairway to the main office on the second floor. The receptionist in the stuffy waiting area is all, “yes, m’Lords,” and “right away m’Lords,” and shouting to an underling, “Brigit! Fetch tea for these gentlemen right away!”

She disappears with the stationary, and soon the manager, Mr. Murphey, races into reception in something of a bluster holding the letter. His suit looks as though he might have slept in it, his grey teeth are crooked, and his hair is as disheveled as his speech.

“Highly irregular! Most perfectly irregular! Very doubtful I might add. Why … why … I should say, what, may I ask, brought this on? This, this, inspection? We’ve not had a single word about any inspection from London, I can tell you that.”

“Sir,” Ash says with a confidence exceeding any real authority, “I don’t know what kind of incompetence has lost the correspondence warning you of our visit,” and with these words the receptionist and Brigit are furiously shuffling through stacks of paper mail and creating a clamor not unlike flock of birds. “But I assure you, the City of London Corporation sent you a letter quite some time ago predisposing you of our visit.”

The bluster of Mr. Murphey is deflated by these words. Mail is an uncertain affair anywhere in the colonies, but the Drogheda Care Home excels at losing correspondences.

“Well, now. If that be the case, I must apologize. Heartily apologize. Most sorry. Most, most sorry. But this is the first we are learning of your visit. In fact, I can tell you quite assuredly that we here at the Drogheda Care Home have never required inspection in our seventeen years of operation – so confident the corporation has been about our output, the surety of the hours of labor we report, and our standards of excellence. Utter confidence.”

“Then we shall see how well the confidence of the corporation is placed, good sir. We would like to begin our inspection immediately.” Says Ash, without a lick of hesitation.

“Well, that’s quite impossible, I’m afraid. Quite impossible. Why, the owner, Mr. Cosgrove is not even here today.” The Manager is wiping the perspiration from his high forehead with a handkerchief. “And certain parts of our facility are not even in operation today.”

Then some sort of recollection races across his face. “And yes, yes. Now I recall. I believe it is contained in the articles of incorporation,” he snaps at the receptionist who is sent into another seizure of paper shuffling, “our articles of incorporation state quite clearly that a day’s notice is to be given before any inspection. If I am not mistaken.”

“Well,” says Ash, “We cannot help that you have lost the memo announcing our visit. But as I can see our presence here has sent you into great alarm, we shall return first thing tomorrow and expect to see every nook and cranny of this facility!” And Ash turns on his heals and marches out. Jackson simply offers a “good day” and tip of his hat to the befuddled office staff before following his brother out the door and down the tiled stairway.

That evening, Shelly stops as usual at the Corporate Arms on her way home, and an animated account is given of their visit with a good deal of embellishment. Ash re-enacts the tizzy of Mr. Murphey and his receptionist.

“Well, I must say you boys have sent the place into frightful commotion. There has been a cleaning of the sweatshops like I’ve never seen before. And I’ve got you to thank for my overtime tonight and the frantic cleaning of the elderly. I doubt they’ve had such a dousing since they arrived. We lined them up as if along a firing wall and heaved buckets of water upon them like they were on fire.

“But, as your stunt has required me to return early tomorrow, I will take my leave of you for tonight.”

“Ah, surely there is time for one more pint.” Ash insists.

“We’ve caused her enough trouble, Ash. Let the girl go home. I shall be glad to walk you there again tonight.” Says Jackson.

“I’m quite alright going home on my own.” She says.

“Well then, I shall at least walk you to the door.” And Jackson offers his elbow, but this time she does not oblige, though she doesn’t stop him from walking her to the door of the tavern.

“Listen, last night,” she says at the door. “I’d had a wee too little sleep and a wee too much drink.” It looks as though she might want say something more, but she shakes her head then turns and exits.

“Good night, Miss Kelly.” Jackson utters quietly as he watches her disappear down the path.