be a hanger-on, just give me something to hang on to! Instead I sit and wait. And wait. Until I am told to return the following day. Or the day after that. Or next week. Or perhaps after the first of the month?
Flynn had long since swallowed what was left of his pride, and made a direct appeal to his companions at the coffee house. ‘You have connections, all of you. We have done business together, surely that means something! All I need is to get my name on the right list.’
His coffee house friends knew that in difficult times a man must guard his assets. They offered Flynn sympathy but kept their connections to themselves.
He knew he should write a reassuring letter to his wife to keep her spirits up. But he could not bring himself to put pen to paper. He knew only too well that she valued truth above all other virtues.
Every day he asked at the post office, hoping for a letter from her. But there never was one. Either she was too ill to write – though in that case surely Virginia would have written – or there was no disaster at home. Yet.
Meanwhile his funds were dwindling. His major source of income was gone. He could not ask his wife for money from the supply he had left for running the household. She must never know that they were hanging on by their fingertips!
He moved from a fashionable inn to a simple lodging house. His diet changed from flesh meats and French brandy to boiled eels and beer. William Flynn, who once set the finest table in West Cork.
In the crooked laneways and foul gutters of Dublin he saw what could become of Irish Catholics who had no property.
He no longer frequented the coffee house. He could not bear to be pitied by men who once admired him. The endof every unsuccessful day found him wandering along the banks of the Liffey. The state of the river suited his mood. When the tide was out the Liffey stank of sewage and dead animals, in spite of the handsome buildings rising on either bank. Sometimes he wondered what would happen to him if he fell in the water. The filth probably would poison him before the river could drown him. William Flynn was careful not to get too close to the bank. He was a dreamer. Something good will happen tomorrow . He still believed that.
Just barely.
One misty evening he recognised a familiar figure on the New Bridge. The man was headed away from him, crossing to the opposite bank of the Liffey. Flynn shouted a name, but the wind snatched the word from his lips and blew it away.
Flynn ran towards the bridge as fast as he could.
As he ran an idea entered his head. There were only three bridges spanning the river: Old Bridge, New Bridge, and the infamous Bloody Bridge, scene of several riots. Surely that was not enough for a fast-growing capital city. Another bridge near the Custom House would make perfect sense.
If I were in the Dublin administration I would propose it, he told himself. Perhaps they would even name it after me. The William Flynn Bridge. How noble it sounds. Catherine would be proud.
If I want to be part of the Dublin administration I must catch up with that man ahead of me!
* * *
Maura’s mother longed to scold her daughter, but she was unwilling to quench the child’s bright spirit. ‘A thousand thanks for bringing her back to us, Tomás,’ Bríd said. ‘I thought she was with Donal until he came in alone. He and Seán just went to look for her.’
‘I was in Tomflynn’s house!’ Maura exclaimed. ‘It’s awful big but he likes me better, he said so. Did you not, Tomflynn?’
Tom nodded. ‘I did indeed.’
‘I frighted Tomflynn’s mother, too!’ the child went on.
‘Surely not, dear heart. Who could be frightened of you?’
‘Maura didn’t frighten my mother,’ Tom said, ‘she merely startled her. Mother didn’t expect to see a strange little girl in our house. I can explain to her when I go home – which I must do at once.’
‘Och, Tomás, I will not hear of it. Stop with us for a while and have
Flynn had long since swallowed what was left of his pride, and made a direct appeal to his companions at the coffee house. ‘You have connections, all of you. We have done business together, surely that means something! All I need is to get my name on the right list.’
His coffee house friends knew that in difficult times a man must guard his assets. They offered Flynn sympathy but kept their connections to themselves.
He knew he should write a reassuring letter to his wife to keep her spirits up. But he could not bring himself to put pen to paper. He knew only too well that she valued truth above all other virtues.
Every day he asked at the post office, hoping for a letter from her. But there never was one. Either she was too ill to write – though in that case surely Virginia would have written – or there was no disaster at home. Yet.
Meanwhile his funds were dwindling. His major source of income was gone. He could not ask his wife for money from the supply he had left for running the household. She must never know that they were hanging on by their fingertips!
He moved from a fashionable inn to a simple lodging house. His diet changed from flesh meats and French brandy to boiled eels and beer. William Flynn, who once set the finest table in West Cork.
In the crooked laneways and foul gutters of Dublin he saw what could become of Irish Catholics who had no property.
He no longer frequented the coffee house. He could not bear to be pitied by men who once admired him. The endof every unsuccessful day found him wandering along the banks of the Liffey. The state of the river suited his mood. When the tide was out the Liffey stank of sewage and dead animals, in spite of the handsome buildings rising on either bank. Sometimes he wondered what would happen to him if he fell in the water. The filth probably would poison him before the river could drown him. William Flynn was careful not to get too close to the bank. He was a dreamer. Something good will happen tomorrow . He still believed that.
Just barely.
One misty evening he recognised a familiar figure on the New Bridge. The man was headed away from him, crossing to the opposite bank of the Liffey. Flynn shouted a name, but the wind snatched the word from his lips and blew it away.
Flynn ran towards the bridge as fast as he could.
As he ran an idea entered his head. There were only three bridges spanning the river: Old Bridge, New Bridge, and the infamous Bloody Bridge, scene of several riots. Surely that was not enough for a fast-growing capital city. Another bridge near the Custom House would make perfect sense.
If I were in the Dublin administration I would propose it, he told himself. Perhaps they would even name it after me. The William Flynn Bridge. How noble it sounds. Catherine would be proud.
If I want to be part of the Dublin administration I must catch up with that man ahead of me!
* * *
Maura’s mother longed to scold her daughter, but she was unwilling to quench the child’s bright spirit. ‘A thousand thanks for bringing her back to us, Tomás,’ Bríd said. ‘I thought she was with Donal until he came in alone. He and Seán just went to look for her.’
‘I was in Tomflynn’s house!’ Maura exclaimed. ‘It’s awful big but he likes me better, he said so. Did you not, Tomflynn?’
Tom nodded. ‘I did indeed.’
‘I frighted Tomflynn’s mother, too!’ the child went on.
‘Surely not, dear heart. Who could be frightened of you?’
‘Maura didn’t frighten my mother,’ Tom said, ‘she merely startled her. Mother didn’t expect to see a strange little girl in our house. I can explain to her when I go home – which I must do at once.’
‘Och, Tomás, I will not hear of it. Stop with us for a while and have
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