was squashed fruit and not something worse. The smell was none too savory, I can tell you that.
The other thing I wasn't used to was the noise
level. Those pushcart men were calling out their wares, mostly in languages I didn't know, but sometimes in broken English, too. People were standing in doorways or out on balconies, yelling across at other people, and children ran squealing, dodging in and out in street games. And to top it all there were barrel organs or hurdy-gurdies stationed on street corners, playing competing tunes. It was lively enough, that was for sure, but overwhelming to newcomers like ourselves. Some dark, ragged children ran up to young Seamus and gave him a push before his father boomed, "Go on, clear off before I belt you one."
Then they dodged away laughing and shouting out in a language that was probably Italian.
"Daddy, I'm tired," Bridie complained, and Seamus hoisted her to his shoulder again. "Not too long now. Hear that foghorn? That's coming from the East River. That's where we're going. Number Twenty-eight Cherry Street--right in the middle of the Irish quarter. The Fourth Ward. Safe and sound."
We turned at last onto a street that was longer and straighter than most we had been through. Not so many pushcarts, either. There was noise spilling out of a saloon and someone started singing "Where the mountains of Morne come down to the sea."
A window above our heads opened and a woman's voice shrieked, "You get in here this minute, Kevin O'Keefe, or you'll get such a walloping, you'll not be able to sit down for a month."
Suddenly I wanted to laugh. I'd come halfway around the world and here I was, back at home!
Seamus came to a halt outside one of the tall brown buildings. "This is home, children. Now we just have to walk up the four flights of stairs and we'll be there." He pushed open the front door and stepped aside with a chivalrous bow. "After you, Miss Molly."
I nodded, thanked him, and stepped inside. The stairway was in pitch darkness and stank as if half the dogs in the world had peed on it. I was only halfway up the first flight when my foot touched something soft and warm. There was a scream and the object beneath my foot wriggled. I think I screamed, too, and only just stopped myself from plunging down the stairs.
"I think I stepped on a baby!" I shouted
into the darkness.
"That will be the Donovans' brat again. She's got so many kids she can't keep track of them. Now there's a new baby and the one above it has learned to crawl, so it's off and away with no one keeping an eye on it."
I reached around in the dark and picked up the squirming, bawling bundle.
"Do they live on this floor?" I made it to the landing.
"Door on the right," Seamus said. He banged on it. It was opened a crack and several pairs of suspicious eyes peeked out.
"Ma, I think it's the health inspector, got Ginny," a child's voice screamed.
I held out the child. "I'm not the health inspector. The little one was lying on the cold stairs in the dark. I stepped on her."
"Ma, Ginny was out on the stairs again. See I told you Freddy wasn't watching her."
"Well bring her in and shut the bleedin' door! Yer lettin the cold air in."
The door opened more than a crack to reveal flickering candle light and a room that seemed to be full of moving shadows. A middle-sized girl, skinny and filthy, snatched the baby from my arms. "Thank you," she said, and closed the door.
I followed Seamus and the children up the dark stairwell, stunned. One more flight, then another. On this landing--it must have been the third floor by now--there was a big stone sink, full and spilling over onto the floor. I picked up my skirts and hurried past. One last flight and there we were. By the time I reached the landing the door was already open, but most of the light from it was blocked by an enormous form, almost filling the door frame.
"Where are they? Where are those precious little ones?" a voice boomed out.
"Children, this is
The other thing I wasn't used to was the noise
level. Those pushcart men were calling out their wares, mostly in languages I didn't know, but sometimes in broken English, too. People were standing in doorways or out on balconies, yelling across at other people, and children ran squealing, dodging in and out in street games. And to top it all there were barrel organs or hurdy-gurdies stationed on street corners, playing competing tunes. It was lively enough, that was for sure, but overwhelming to newcomers like ourselves. Some dark, ragged children ran up to young Seamus and gave him a push before his father boomed, "Go on, clear off before I belt you one."
Then they dodged away laughing and shouting out in a language that was probably Italian.
"Daddy, I'm tired," Bridie complained, and Seamus hoisted her to his shoulder again. "Not too long now. Hear that foghorn? That's coming from the East River. That's where we're going. Number Twenty-eight Cherry Street--right in the middle of the Irish quarter. The Fourth Ward. Safe and sound."
We turned at last onto a street that was longer and straighter than most we had been through. Not so many pushcarts, either. There was noise spilling out of a saloon and someone started singing "Where the mountains of Morne come down to the sea."
A window above our heads opened and a woman's voice shrieked, "You get in here this minute, Kevin O'Keefe, or you'll get such a walloping, you'll not be able to sit down for a month."
Suddenly I wanted to laugh. I'd come halfway around the world and here I was, back at home!
Seamus came to a halt outside one of the tall brown buildings. "This is home, children. Now we just have to walk up the four flights of stairs and we'll be there." He pushed open the front door and stepped aside with a chivalrous bow. "After you, Miss Molly."
I nodded, thanked him, and stepped inside. The stairway was in pitch darkness and stank as if half the dogs in the world had peed on it. I was only halfway up the first flight when my foot touched something soft and warm. There was a scream and the object beneath my foot wriggled. I think I screamed, too, and only just stopped myself from plunging down the stairs.
"I think I stepped on a baby!" I shouted
into the darkness.
"That will be the Donovans' brat again. She's got so many kids she can't keep track of them. Now there's a new baby and the one above it has learned to crawl, so it's off and away with no one keeping an eye on it."
I reached around in the dark and picked up the squirming, bawling bundle.
"Do they live on this floor?" I made it to the landing.
"Door on the right," Seamus said. He banged on it. It was opened a crack and several pairs of suspicious eyes peeked out.
"Ma, I think it's the health inspector, got Ginny," a child's voice screamed.
I held out the child. "I'm not the health inspector. The little one was lying on the cold stairs in the dark. I stepped on her."
"Ma, Ginny was out on the stairs again. See I told you Freddy wasn't watching her."
"Well bring her in and shut the bleedin' door! Yer lettin the cold air in."
The door opened more than a crack to reveal flickering candle light and a room that seemed to be full of moving shadows. A middle-sized girl, skinny and filthy, snatched the baby from my arms. "Thank you," she said, and closed the door.
I followed Seamus and the children up the dark stairwell, stunned. One more flight, then another. On this landing--it must have been the third floor by now--there was a big stone sink, full and spilling over onto the floor. I picked up my skirts and hurried past. One last flight and there we were. By the time I reached the landing the door was already open, but most of the light from it was blocked by an enormous form, almost filling the door frame.
"Where are they? Where are those precious little ones?" a voice boomed out.
"Children, this is
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