Letter From America: The Irish Pimpernel
Ronnie Bray tells a tale that will leave you gasping.
"So, Padraigh, you’re going to go to London and make your fortune?" Mrs Kelly asked the question of Padraigh Malley shortly before his twentieth birthday. His Uncle Tim had given him a fair amount of money as a present and on the strength of that cash Padraigh decided to ship himself to England and see what London had to offer a likely lad.
"I am that, Mrs Kelly," he replied courteously, as was his wont. "Sure and I’ll be on the ferry boat to Holyhead next Wednesday, then take the train to London and set myself up."
"I wish you well, Padraigh," said Michael Dunne who had been sat nearby and overhead the plan. "Sure, my boy Neily went there two years ago and we haven’t heard from him but once in all that time. We wonder what could have happened to him. If you run in to him would you ask him to write to us?"
"I will that, said the lad earnestly, "And I’ll make a special point of looking for him when I get there."
"Faith, and that’s right grand of you, lad,"
"D’ye have an address for him?" asked Padraigh.
"I used to," said Father Dunne, but it got lost. I know it was somewhere in London and it was number three, but I can’t remember any more of it."
"That’s alright, Mr Dunne," said Padraigh. "Sure I’ll work with what I have. After all, how many streets can there be in London? I’ll knock on every door with number three on it that I can find, and I’ll find that neglectful jakeen, Neily, and have him write to his Ma and Pa!"
"Bless you, Paddy. Sure and that will warm the cockles of our old hearts. You’re a good lad."
The following Wednesday Padraigh set sail for England and then went by rail to London, alighting at Euston with his big valise full of everything he would need to establish himself in the capital.
He was earnest in his intentions to find a place to stay and a job to start until he could set himself up in some business or other. Yet he was mindful too that he had given his inviolable promise to find the Dunne’s son and set him straight about keeping in touch with his aged parents.
"I’ll seek him here, I’ll seek him there. I’ll seek that Dunne boy everywhere!" He said through gritted teeth, so urgent was he to fulfil his promise to Neil’s father.
He followed a crowd in the belief that it would know the way out, and thus would save him the embarrassment of having to ask his way out of the huge station and into the street. He was more than a little surprised when the group he tracked went into a place as big as a cathedral that was tiled from floor to ceiling with more white tiles than he had seen in his score of years.
His surprise was turned to joy when he saw a row of the smallest houses he had ever laid eyes on. Each house was no more than three or four inches wider than its door, and two doors from the end was one with the number he was looking for, number three!
"That’s lucky." He thought, "I’ve not yet put shoe leather onto the street and there’s the first number three for me to ask after the lad!"
He strode towards the door, rapped it like a bailiff, and asked in a commanding voice,
"Are you Neily Dunne?"
From within came a voice that sounded panic stricken saying,
"I am. But there’s no paper!"
Copyright © 2010 – Ronnie Bray
http://yorkshiretales.com/journalsnormagoodwin/
