Delaney. Part IX

When they enter, Ash is overcome with the suffocating heat of the room and the stench of body odor. There are about ten or twelve adults on bicycles. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust since there is a single lamp in the windowless room. Ash recognizes the young woman he saw on the ship right away, wearing the same green dress. She rests her head in her arms which are folded onto the handlebars of a stationary bike. Some of the refinement he had noted aboard ship has been ground down. The back wheel of her bicycle drives a belt which spins a pulley directly above her and in turn drives another belt located up in the rafters. It disappears into the sewing room.

“This is the engine room for our textile operation.” The clacking of looms in the next room can still be heard rattling off the walls, but Mr. Cosgrove’s voice can be heard now. He follows Ash’s gaze to the woman in the green dress and walks over to her, tapping his cane on her shoulder. Magdalene is startled and quickly sits up.

“And what’s your name, my darling?” He says.

“I’m Magdalene,” she says, sitting upright but slowing her pedaling, her shoulders now straightening. Some dignity returning to her posture. She stares straight ahead blankly.

“Aren’t you a pretty thing. I’m the owner, Mr. Cosgrove, and I have two gentlemen here from London who’ve come to see our operation. I think that you must be new. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Yes, sir.” She replies. “I arrived from England on Monday.” Now she ceases pedaling altogether to speak, and the others in the room take this as tacit permission for a break. A visit from London guests appears to be good enough reason for a break, or at least a deterrent to their overseers to prod the laborers to keep pace.

“I saw you Sunday night,” Ash tells her. “On the way to Ireland. We were aboard the same ship.” There is an awkwardness in describing to the visually impaired a meeting in which they did not know of ones presence.

“I don’t recall us meeting, sir.” She says. “I’m afraid those of us below didn’t get to interact with the other passengers. Kept to ourselves down in steerage.”

“Yes,” says Ash. “I happened to wander down there. That’s when, well, when I saw you.”

Jackson places a hand on Ash’s shoulder. “I believe we are being encouraged to move along with the inspection.” He says. “

“You’re inspectors, sir?” Magdalene asks. “If you could see about …” And she stops.

“Yes?” Says Ash, but Mr. Cosgrove is moving toward the door.

“Come, come.” He says. “I’d like you to see the residence halls. I think you’ll find the accommodations …”

“If you could see about one of the children, sir.” She whispers. “Her name is Adrienne. She came over with me on the ship. She was taken to the infirmary four days ago and I haven’t heard from her. They won’t tell me…”

“Enough, enough, enough.” Cosgrove has walked back to Ash and is waving his cane in between him and Magdalene, urging Ash to carry on with the tour. “Crack on everyone,” he shouts. “Back to work. And thank you all for your good service. Workers with purpose …” And the drone of wheels and pulleys and belts resumes with a few muttering the conclusion to the axiom, “workers with power.”

“Now there’s a stunning little package. The blind one, don’t you think?” Mr. Cosgrove glances back at Magdalene as they exit the room. “Perhaps I’ll have to find her something a little less strenuous.”

“Mr. Cosgrove,” Ash shouts over the noise as they step out of the textile factory by a side door. “Before visiting the residence halls I wonder if we might inspect the infirmary.”

“As you wish, Mr. Rourk. As you wish.” And Cosgrove spins on his heels and points his cane to a single-story building across a well-kept green lawn. An old man who is bent over nearly at ninety degrees walks to a flowerbed alongside the infirmary. He has shackles on his ankles and takes tiny steps as the shackles will allow. He stops to prune a rosebush.

“Is that completely necessary?” Jackson asks, pointing to the shackles.

“Quite so. It’s for their own safety. Some of our elderly are plagued with dementia. Can’t have them wandering off and getting lost.”

When they enter the building, an attractive nurse with piles of red hair is sitting behind a reception desk. She stands when they enter.

“Mr. Cosgrove. We weren’t expecting you. Welcome.”

“Yes, yes, Emily. I know how you like surprises.” The man is chuckling and poking her in the breast with his cane.

“I’d like to ask about a patient.” Ash interrupts. “A child. A girl. Came over with the new admissions last Monday morning on the ship from England. Adrienne.”

The nurse sits down and opens a large book.

“Last name?”

“I don’t know. Just Adrienne. She will have been admitted just a few days ago. As I say, with the arrivals that came from England.”

“Yes. I see her here. Adrienne Bowles. Eight years of age. She’s being tested.”

“Tested? Tested for what?” He asks.

“The child has spina bifida. She’ll be needing testing to find out what kind of work might best suit her.”

“But surely she won’t be conscripted to the sort of labor we’ve witnessed.”

“Best thing for the child.” Mr. Cosgrove says. “Work gives purpose to the infirm and the elderly.

“Speaking of your arrival, Mr. Rourk.” He continues. “You say you came over last Monday morning with our new residents. Came to inspect our facility, and yet here it is the Monday following and you’re only now just visiting us.”

“Well,” Ash replies, “as we told you. We are of Irish descent and have spent the week reacquainting ourselves with our heritage. You might say it is part vacation, part work trip. It’s all above board I assure you.”

It is at this moment that Shelly comes down the hall pushing a laundry cart piled with linens. Jackson spies her and lights up. He lifts a hand to wave and a look of mortification crosses her face. She shakes her head slightly. Jackson catches on and lowers his hand, but he cannot be sure whether or not Mr. Cosgrove observed the exchange.

“On to the resident halls, yes Mr. Cosgrove?” Jackson says.

“Onward!” He says, and his cane is lifted like a conductor’s baton pointing to the exit.

****

The dinner bell has not yet sounded and most of the boys are still in the dorm since their afternoon chores have all been completed. Completed, that is, to the satisfaction of pre-teen boys. Their loud banter dies down when Father enters the room with Delaney.

“This’ll be your bunk here, son.” Father Fitzpatrick pats the straw mattress on the top bunk of a bed just inside the door. There are two walls lined with bunk beds while the other two walls are dotted with desks or dressers and a single fireplace. Most boys lay in their beds dozing or reading while a few sit at desks. The space smells of sweaty clothes and unwashed feet. It reminds her of the sour odor rising from the laundry tub when a basketful of undergarments were submerged each time Delaney was assigned to the wash at the convent.

“Boys this is Delaney. He comes to us from Dunleer. He’ll be staying here from now on.” The words “from now on” stab Delaney in the stomach and she must swallow the urge to burst into tears.

“I know you’ll all work hard to make him feel welcome, won’t you boys?”

A half-hearted “Yes Father” rings out from three or four of the dozen boys.

“Very good.” He says. The dinner bell will be ringing soon, so I expect you can show Delany where to wash up.” And with this Father Fitzpatrick is out the door and Delaney is abandoned to a room filled with the frightfully unfamiliar male gender.

A boy laying in the bunk directly below hers says, “Hey. How old are you?”

“Seven.” She says quietly.

“Seven? Puny for seven, aren’t you? I thought you were four.”

“I’m twelve.” The boy says. “I’m the oldest here so you’ll do what I tell you.” The boy is tall for twelve and his voice has already thickened with adolescence. He lies in only a pair of ragged boxer shorts.

“Jack’s older than you, Frank!” Another boy yells from across the room.

“Shut your shit hole!” Frank snaps. “He’s two months older and that not enough to count. Besides, Jack’s a pansy-ass cry baby.”

Another boy, apparently the Jack they are talking about, sits reading on the edge of a bottom bunk a few beds down.  “Shut up, shithead” he mutters under his breath,

Frank burst from his bead and is over to Jack’s bed in three quick strides.

“What’d you call me?”

Jack is silent.

“I said, what’d you call me asshole?”

“Nothing.” He whispers.

At this Frank launches a foot into his groin and Jack doubles over holding his crotch.

“You got that right, Jack-ass.” Then Frank walks back to his bunk and drops loudly onto his mattress shaking the frame as Jack curls up in agony.

Delaney tosses a satchel of clothes up and ascends the ladder leading to her bunk above Frank. She lays down and turns toward the wall fighting back tears. There is a tremendous jolt from under her mattress as Frank kicks the bed above him.

“Hey, Puny. What’d Father say your name was?”

“Delaney,” she says, after a moment or two, trying to sound tougher than she feels.

“De-puny.” Frank says. “Mind if I call you De-puny?”

A handbell is ringing from down the hall and the room erupts with the clatter of boys scurrying from beds and desks to rush out of the room. Frank gives another hard kick to Delany’s bunk.

“Time to eat, De-puny.” And he is out the door.

The stone-walled great room is large, with lamps assisting the dim twilight which bleeds through tall, stained glass windows. Two long tables stretch like tracks down the center of the room. One table is occupied by a dozen Friars and the other is lined with the boys. At the far end of the room upon on a raised platform is a smaller table with five senior Brothers seated on one side like the apostles at the last supper. Father Fitzpatrick is at the center and stands as he waits for the room to fall quiet.

Delany’s late entry and her solitary approach to the vacant space on the bench at the end of the boys’ table is a lonely one. All eyes wait for her to be seated and she is painfully self-conscious.

“Now that we are all here, let us pray,” Father says, and the room erupts with voices in unison. Even Delaney knows the lead in to all prayers.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” Hands move in synchrony as all make the sign of the cross. But the remainder of the prayer is new to Delaney, and she makes no attempt to mouth the words in pretense.

Bless this food we are about to eat, O Lord;
and we pray, O God, that it may be good for our body and soul;
and if there be any poor creature hungry or thirsty walking along the road,
send them into us that we can share our food with them,
just as You share your gift of life with each of us.

Delaney assumes she must be the “poor creature” walking along the road, sent in to share their food. But food is the last desire she feels a need to fulfill.

When the amen is spoken there comes a terrific din of chatter and the bang of spoons upon metal bowls. The depression bearing down on her soul constricts her stomach. Still, she picks up her spoon and lowers it into the stew – heavy on the potatoes and light on the beef. She brings some tepid broth to her mouth and pulls it past her lips.

“Don’t mind Frank.” The boy next to Delaney whispers, though he’s hardly in danger of being heard above the noise. Especially since Frank sits at the far end. “He’s an idiot.”

Delaney does not look up from her bowl.

“I’m Eric,” the boy says. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Delaney.”

“Oh yeah. Delaney. It’s not so bad here. You’ll get used to it.”

The words lift the depression ever so slightly and Delaney manages a few more mouthfuls.

“Maybe you’ll be taken on by a rich family, like me. I’m a gardener’s assistant. Most days I don’t even eat breakfast here, don’t even go to school. Get to work in a grand house where they feed me breakfast, even if they give it to me in the tool shed.”

Eric goes on about his work on the sprawling estate of a local family. It makes the dinner time pass more quickly and gives Delaney something to listen to besides the wailing of her broken heart. At the ringing of another bell the boys are tasked with cleaning up and Father Fitzpatrick comes to where Delaney sits.

“We’ll give you a pass on the dishes tonight, Delaney.” He places a hand on her shoulder. “Until you feel a bit more at home. And do try to arrive on time, son.”