Chapter Four

Monk tasted the sausage and bacon in the coddle. Soft and juicy, like his mother had made them. The potatoes were a bit stale, but the meat made up for it by far.

Suddenly, he thought back to the last time he'd eaten coddle.

Rose McGinn laid the dish down in front of her children. Walter, being the oldest, was given the smaller piece on the account of the fact that to be good was to give the greater share to those who needed it more. Like Seamus, their working father, or young Christy, small and frail for her age. Walter's mother continually quoted the words of the Bible to her children, stressing the necessity of that.

Walter's stomach was growling, but knew that his mother wanted him to say grace on the account of their father not being present, but at the dockyards working on the waterfront. He was the oldest child and at nine years old, behaving more and more like the man of the house. Rose rarely mentioned their father unless it was to comment on how he was a hard worker and a loyal husband but flawed because of his lack of faith.

Walter would not be lacking of faith, she promised him with a shaky voice occasionally, after discrediting Seamus. Walter would grow to love God and fear his punishment of the wicked. He would rise above the world that his parents inhabited.

Years later, Walter would realize that it had all begun from that one night two years before when he'd realized that Seamus was in a gang and fought against the Protestants who competed fiercely for work on Dublin's docks.

Seamus had come into Walter's room a few days after the initial incident and told him about how he defended his Catholicism in battle and fought bad people. He told Walter about how a man must fight in such times, or else fail to be a man. Walter wondered if Rose had insisted that he reference his faith to Walter, but there likely was a fear of God in his soul, suppressed by the reality around him.

Seamus had shown him the scars on his body, and the notches on his shillelagh. He told Walter of how he put the markings on his weapon in celebration of triumph. Walter would forever be disturbed by the thought of each little nick on the weapon to be the life of a man on Seamus' soul. God would surely punish him for it when he died. Seamus shrugged it off when Walter said as much, making him even more uneasy.

As the years passed, though, it was easier to comprehend. Walter became exposed towards the danger of the streets, and he saw his first fight when he was eight years old, watching two boys going at each other with pieces of wood, until Seamus waded in with his shillelagh, halting the violence. Walter had loved his father at that moment, and was even more assured of his father's goodness when Seamus immediately told him that only a fool sought violence blindly. One must be able to bite his pride at small insults, knowing when someone was serious or not.

Of course, Seamus often broke that rule. Walter would be confused for many months at why this was so, then as he got older, he knew that his father was most involved in fighting when he was drunk. The spirits he drank were the cause of his most violent tempers, when he staggered into the house late at night, cursing as he rubbed an old wound. He would holler at Rose, who prayed to God to forgive her husband for being so blasphemous. Walter heard words he'd never imagined existed from his father.

Seamus was a good worker, though. He would always show Walter around his work, showing him that he must never rely on a job at the docks to get him through life. He must take up a proper trade.

So at ten, Walter was already wondering what he was going to do with his life. It was on one day that he decided what he was fated to do.

Walter's family lived only a few blocks away from the Liffey, which split Dublin in half. Walter frequently crossed the river on his exploring walks of the city, trying to avoid any trouble. Because he was a young child who looked reasonably cared for, few people truly wanted to mess with him, thinking that his parents were nearby.

One day, he found himself watching a group of older boys playing football in the street. It wasn't easy to play, and the youths were frequently interrupted.

He walked up to them, "Can I play?"

"Piss off!" the first youth said. He was considerably bigger than Walter, and about three years older. All of the lads were thirteen it seemed to Walter.

Walter was hurt by the hostile tone and felt humiliated to be so insulted in front of everyone. One of the other boys glared angrily at the speaker, "Mind your tongue, Fin. The lad didn't ask for an insult."

Fin gave a leer, "Aye and we didn't ask for little pricks to come up to us and bother our game."

Suddenly, a fierce anger consumed Walter; he was being humiliated. Was this what his father had been talking about when he spoke of honour? Was Fin expecting him to fight back? So be it.

Running forward in his anger, Walter yelled out his first swear word in his mother's Gaelic, "Hey, amadan, you don't call me those names!"

Turning around in surprise, Fin yelled as Walter, shorter and lighter than his opponent, slammed into Fin's midriff with his head. Because he hadn't been expecting it, Fin fell over onto the ground.

Waving a childish fist with all his might, Walter landed a fierce punch where his arm was nearest; right in Fin's gut. Fin gasped in pain, swearing foully, and then he kicked Walter in the leg. Ignoring Walter's wail of pain, Fin landed a fierce punch of his own on Walter's eye.

Weeping from the pain, Walter clutched the swollen area around his eye. He didn't see the second kick from Fin that landed him flat on his back.

All of a sudden he heard a meaty thud followed by another scream from Fin, but far more higher pitched than the yell he'd uttered when Walter charged him at first. Even though he was consumed by his own pain and humiliation, Walter could tell that Fin was in real pain.

Blinking away his tears, he noticed Fin doubled on the ground, clutching his groin and wailing. Over him stood the boy who'd first reprimanded him.

"Yer a bloody little bastard, Fin, an' you'll feel both my shoes on your shrivelled blein again if you ever do that again!"

The older boy, who was taller than Fin, almost picked up Walter in his arms and took him into a little shop on one side of the street. Walter noticed that there was a sign in both English and Gaelic. It read "Vallon's Barbershop" in both languages.

Inside, it was cramped, but still very comfortable-looking. Several customers were sitting down, waiting for a haircut while a small boy went around shining shoes for money.

A tall man was also administering haircuts. He looked somber and serious as he gazed upon the hair he was working with. His shears seemed to be extensions of his fingers as they sought out the hair and trimmed it to their perfection.

Almost forgetting the pain he felt, Walter looked at his rescuer, "Who's that?"

The boy smiled, recognizing the awe in Walter's prebuscent voice, "That's my da. Cillian Vallon, best barber in Dublin, so he is!"

Cillian noticed the appearance of the two boys and hurried over to see them, "Now then, son! Who's this?"

The boy- Walter realized his surname was Vallon- patted Walter on the shoulder, "This young lad wanted to join our game and Fin was being a bully and this lad goes right for Fin and takes him on!"

Walter expected Cillian- who seemed more like a clergy member than a barber- to tut, lecture Walter on fighting, and perhaps even cuff him over the head. Instead, however, Cillian chuckled to himself, patted Walter on the head and said, "You're a brave lad! Soon to be a mighty fighter, no doubt! What's yer name?"

Walter spoke in a hesitant voice, trying to hide the pain in it from his injuries, "Walter McGinn, sir."

Cillian nodded, "Aye. Well it figures to see who your father is."

Walter wasn't sure if that was an insult or a compliment. It had been delivered in such a neutral voice that he wasn't sure. He suddenly noticed that the shoe-shiner was being given a tip from one of the customers. The sight of such easy money filled Walter's eyes with a longing. He knew that his mother was afraid of having no money. Maybe if he could get a job, like his father said, he could help her.

Vallon noticed the look and spoke quickly to his father, "Say, da, you think you could employ this lad in the shop?"

Cillian started in surprise, as did Walter. Cillian recovered instantly however, thinking about it. He spoke to Walter, "Do you want to work for me, lad? Work in the barbershop?"

Walter thought about it. Learning to cut hair from this man, earning money, having somthing to do that got him out of trouble, like his parents said. He knew he wanted it badly.

Saying as much to Cillian, the man chuckled, "Well, ask yer parents first, lad. If they want, they can come talk to me about it. But for now, I want you to go with Liam and check out your eye. It's turning into a real shiner, lad."

Vallon took Walter out back and washed out the youngster's eye, and afterwards brought him home on his father's orders.

Walter thanked Vallon for walking with him and hurried indoors, where his family was about to sit for dinner. Surprisingly, Seamus was there too on one of those rare days when he ate with the family.

Seeing Walter's appearance, Rose screamed. Seamus stood up in shock, "Bloody hell!"

Ignoring her husband's blasphemy for once, Rose bent on one knee to examine Walter's face, "What happened to you!"

Walter told the story in its full entirety, not missing one thing.

At the end of it, Seamus had a wide grin on his weathered face, "My son loses his first fight, and gets offered a job. I don't know whether to beat you or hug you, Walter."

Walter beamed, and Rose smiled feebly through her tears at the chances her son had been offered; her prayers were answered, it seemed. She stood up, "I'm thinking tomorrow we ought to eat something special to the occasion."

The next day, while Seamus was off to arrange the terms of work with Cillian, they had coddle. Vallon had been invited to join, and he sat next to Walter.

Monk smiled at the memory. It was the first time he'd met his favourite mentor, and one of his best friends. Not only that, it had led to his developing a trade to live on.

It had also given him a taste of fighting, and a sense that he could win if he fought hard enough. Though at the time he hadn't understood it so clearly.