Delaney. Part III

Less than two hours walk to the south of Dunleer sits the town of Drogheda. From there the River Boyne flows out into the Irish Sea. It is a convenient location for those in England to ship their old, their infirm, and their mentally ill to a place the polite refer to as a, “Care Home.”

At 21 o’clock Shelly arrives at her family cottage and walks through the front door. She’s dressed in dingy white scrubs and her ample black hair is pulled into a unkempt bun. At nineteen she has somehow managed to maintain her youthful appearance despite working twelve-hour shifts for nearly five years at the Drogheda Care Home. But more miraculous than the lack of hardened features, she has not suffered the sort of melancholic spirit so common among those working in the Homes. Perhaps it is due to her straightforward manner. Shelly is not one to bottle up her thoughts, and in the release of her unfiltered words the years have not poisoned her soul.

“Hiya,” she calls absently, and when she casts her eyes into the small family room lamplight flickers upon two new faces sitting there, surrounded by her parents and five younger siblings.

“Shelly,” her mother says, “These are your cousins, Jackson and Ash. They’re from London.”

The two men appear to be in their early twenties, well dressed, and looking desperately tired. But they come to life as she enters the room and rise to greet her.

“Cousins?” She says. “I didn’t know about any cousins in London.”

“Cousins is perhaps the cleanest way to put it.” Ash is a good bit taller than Jackson, brilliantly blonde, and square-jawed. He removes his hat and steps toward Shelly. She takes his outstretched hand and grips it confidently.

“I’m Ash.” He says. “And this is my brother Jackson.” Jackson, the more reserved of the two, has high cheek bones, receding dark brown hair and a neatly cropped beard. He looks up from the floor at her, then stands and nods, holding his hat in front of him with both hands.

“Miss Kelly.” He says.

“Our grandfather,” Ash continues. “came to England from Drogheda when he was just a boy. Came with his parents just before The Struggles. Back in the prior age. And he never let father nor us forget we’re Irish.”

“And so, your last name is Kelly?” Shelly is mostly good natured about her name. Her parents must’ve been in a queer mood when they named her. Not Michelle. Not Shirley. Not Shelagh. They named her Shelly. Shelly Kelly, figuring she might learn to spell her name before all the other children her age and this might give her a learning advantage. But the learned don’t enjoy any advantage over the simple in Drogheda. Nor anywhere outside of London for that matter.

“No. Our great grandad was related to your mother’s side. O’Rourk was his name. Your mother’s maiden name, but he shortened it to Rourk.”

“The Rourk boys arrived on a ship early this morning from Liverpool.” Her dad says.

“Yes,” Shelly responds. “I know about the ship. We received eight new residents from England today.”

“The boys’ll be staying at the Corporate Arms in town.” He says. “Came here a few hours ago but we wanted them to meet you before they return to their room.”

Then turning to Jackson and Ash, “We’ve kept you boys long enough. Tomorrow is Shelly’s day off. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind showing you around town.” He looks to his daughter who is caught off guard with this impromptu task. She forces a smile.

“You’re very kind Miss Kelly.” Says Ash. “We’d be glad of it. It was something of a dream for grandad to return to Ireland. He never made it back, nor did our father. Passed away earlier this year. Our coming to Ireland is a bit of a fulfillment of their desires.”

“Well,” responds Shelly. “We Irish must ever stand at the ready to fulfill the desires of our English relations.” But the young men do not catch her cutting sarcasm. Those in power rarely discern the coded mockery of the oppressed, assuming them to be grateful for their benevolent oversight.

As Father signals toward the door there is a round of hand shaking with “very pleased to meet you,” and “pleasant good evening” before the gentlemen disappear out the door and down the road.

“Did you not think I might have had plans of my own for my one day off, Father?”

“Now Shelly,” her mother says, “we’ve got to be good to these boys. They’re our kin. And besides, if they take a fancy to us, we might gain some favorable outcome. They’ve got means.”

“Oh mother. I don’t want any of their corporate privilege and neither should you.”

“Hey, hey.” Mr. Kelly says. “The way I see it, it’s not their privilege anyways. Belongs to us here in Ireland. All the fruits of our labor runs downhill into London pockets. There’s nothing our London kin have what hasn’t been drained out of our land.”

Mother shoos the younger children to bed while Shelly finishes some cold leftovers, chewing upon the unexpected encounter with her English “cousins” from the heart of the corporate empire.

The next morning Ash and Jackson arrive early, and Shelly hasn’t finished dressing the younger siblings let along herself. So, Mr. Kelly manages to keep the boys occupied outside since the cottage is small and the morning dressing routine is a public affair to all inside.

After a minute or two Shelly appears with the creak and slap of cottage screen door. She is dressed in her only good outfit; a blue, knee-length skirt, slightly faded, and a cream-orange button down sweater.

Ash and Jackson smile and straighten their jackets as she approaches.

“Good morning, Miss Kelly,” Jackson says.

“Jackson.” She replies. “Ash. Good morning. And you can call me Shelly. No need for formality between relations.”

“Well then, Shelly, we would be glad if you could show us around Drogheda.” Says Ash. “We have only been to the shipping dock, the Corporate Arms, and a short visit to Millmount Fort . It was the archives at the fort that told us yesterday of our relationship to those here at your address. Otherwise, we’ve seen nothing of the town.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find the town drab and dreary compared to London.” Shelly’s outlook at playing tour guide for the Rourk brothers has brightened since last night. Truth be told, she had nothing planned for the day. She simply resented her father making plans on her behalf; plans to entertain well-to-do Englishmen at that. But the brothers are not bad looking and their company may even prove enjoyable.

“Drab and dreary actually sounds quite lovely,” says Jackson. “London can be something of a muddle in my opinion. Too many people for my liking. I prefer the open spaces here, drab and dreary or not.”

“Well then, drab and dreary it is. Let’s be off.” And the three trot off from the cottage toward Shop Street.

“So, your parents said you work in one of the Care Homes.” Ash walks alongside Shelly, looking at her as he speaks, then glancing back at the road so as to keep from tripping over the broken pavement and bits of earth sprouting up from the cracks.

“Yes, but we don’t call them Care Homes here in Ireland. People will look at you like you’re from England if you call them Care Homes, which I suppose is true enough anyway.”

“Oh, I see. Do you use a Gaelic term for them?” asks Jackson.

“No.” She smiles. “Care Home is a euphemism. We call them something more descriptive; ‘murder factories.’”

“Murder Factory. My, a bit morose, don’t you think?” Jackson responds.

“Have you ever been inside one?” And both gentlemen continue next to her in silence.

“Let me tell you about the so-called ‘Care Homes.’”

“You’re familiar with how we’re paid here in Ireland, yes?” The boys nod like obedient puppies, but they are only marginally educated in corporate practices outside of London. Which is to be expected. They were educated in a school available only to stockholders in the City of London Corporation.

“So, you know that a person’s worth is measured in terms of their labor – what the corporation can count on in terms of the number of working hours from each person. Most of us work 10 to 12-hour days, six days a week from about age fourteen onward. A person gives 3,500 hours of labor each year to serve the City of London Corporation. In turn, everyone gets roughly the same amount of corporate scrip each week to buy what we need from corporate shops. Course, our homes and our land is all owned by the corporation.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Same in London.” Says Ash. But this is not true for the residents of west London, only for the Bengali laborers. The boys know little of life in London’s east end, the majority of the population eking out a meager existence just a few miles from their home.

“Well, there is a kind of exception to this rule for the Murder Factories, at least for the owners. The English like to put Care Homes far from the persons of note and quality.” She glances at the boys to see if they have caught her sarcastic tone. If they have, they do not show it.

“They are privately owned and run. The owners are not paid for their labor like the rest of us. The owners are paid for the hours of labor from the residents, and, in turn, the owners take care of the needs of the residents and pay staff like me. The owners keep any scrip leftover after expenses are paid.

“Are you boys following?” Shelly sets a brisk stride and it requires some effort to keep up with her. They assure her that they do follow her, but much of this information is new.

“So, you might imagine. If the labor output of an individual resident falls below the cost of their care, they are sent to the floor. Do you know what happens on The Floor?”

Ash would like to assure her that yes, they do indeed know what happens on the floor. He’s uncomfortable being schooled by a nineteen-year-old Irish girl. But he has not the faintest clue, so she waits until both of them respond with a shake of the head before she goes on.

“The Floor is a room in the basement where one of our staff will … how shall I put this in the company of delicate gentlemen …?” She searches for the words to finish her sentence. “… they eliminate the cost of upkeep for that particular resident.” The boys stop. Their minds are processing her oblique language.

“You’re not saying …” Jackson sputters.

“This is why locals call the place you English send your expendable people, Murder Factories.”