The Chisellers by Brendan O'Carroll Page B

luv.’ Agnes began to root in her handbag and extracted Dolly’s letter. She read the address aloud. ‘1202 Ironwood Court.’
    Tim nodded at the lady slowly in a silent gesture for her to go on with the rest of the address but she didn‘t, she just looked again and smiled.
    ‘And where is Ironwood Court ? ’
    Agnes was now getting towards the end of her tether. ‘In fuckin’ Canada.’
    Tim made a gentle tug at the letter. Agnes hung on.
    ‘May I have a look at the address, please?’ he asked, exasperated.
    Reluctantly Agnes let him have the letter, but folded it in half before handing it over so he couldn’t read the whole page.
    Tim said aloud. ‘Ah! I see - in Toronto in Canada.’
    Agnes nodded her head. ‘Good man.’
    Tim bent under the counter to get himself a fare-and-route manual. He placed the huge book on the counter and began flicking through the pages. He eventually stopped at a page and ran his finger down a column.
    ‘Right, then. You could go by Geneva.’ He looked up.
    Agnes thought for a moment. ‘Geneva? Is that like a jumbo?’
    ‘No, Geneva is in Switzerland.’
    ‘I want to go to Can-a-da for God’s sake.’
    ‘You will be going to Canada - but if I send you through Geneva it would be the most cost-effective way.’
    ‘But I’ll get to me sister’s?’
    Tim smiled a broad smile. He wished this woman would just disappear. ‘You will of course, madam. Have you decided on a date yet?’
    ‘No, not yet.’
    ‘Ah! So, really, you’re just looking for the fare?’
    ‘No, no, I have the fare, I just need to know the price.’
    ‘I can get you a charter price of £199 return - that’s really good value, believe me.’
    That sounds grand. Yeh, that’s for me. I’ll be bringing me son as well, he’s dying to meet his new uncle. He’s a Canadian, yeh know, bank manager.‘
    ‘And how old is he?’
    ‘About forty-one, I think. Let me see ...’
    ‘Your son is forty-one?’
    ‘No! His uncle is forty-one. Me son is only eight.’
    Tim Donegan had had enough. ‘Well, once he’s below twelve he’ll get a fifty percent reduction. That’s half price. So, there you have it. When you have a date, drop in and see us and we’ll look after you.’
    ‘What’s your name, luv’.
    ‘My name? Eh Tim, Tim Donegan.’
    ‘Grand, Tim, I’ll ask for you the next time I come in, because I couldn’t go through all them questions again.’
    Agnes smiled, gathered her bag and left the travel agent’s office. As soon as she was gone Tim Donegan put on the kettle for a hot cup of tea and took a valium.

Chapter 9
     
    FRANKIE BROWNE SAT ON THE SMALL two-foot wall that surrounded St Jarlath’s church. Beside him, down behind the wall, three other skinheads were playing poker. Although a keen poker player himself, Frankie didn’t want to join the boys in their game today, his mind was elsewhere. He had just ten days of his mother’s deadline left and still had nowhere to go. He had no intention of getting a job. Jobs were for ‘mugs’. He was no mug; he was too smart to be a mug. He thought about going to London — he had heard London was a great town for scams. Bunty Flynn said his brother was in London for three years and was signing on the dole at six different offices, making nearly £200 a week. That’s the kind of money Frankie was interested in, real money. He took a last drag on the cigarette and flicked the butt towards the curb. Just then from around the side of St Jarlath’s church another skinhead, ‘Copper’ Cullen, came running. He was breathless by the time he reached the group.
    Frankie stood up. ‘What’s up, Copper?’
    ‘The lads - the lads have a queer cornered up Peck’s Lane. Come on!’
    The card game was abandoned and the five of them took off around the side of the church. Peck’s Lane was just a minute’s run from where they had been. As they came to the entrance of the lane they could see six of their skinhead friends milling around a slumped figure.