have,’ Brian said. ‘Let’s just say that you are not opposed to the motor car, which will soon be the only way to travel around this city and any other too?’
‘No, sir,’ Joe said. ‘It’s progress, I suppose, like the steam ships taking over from the old sailing ships.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Brian said. ‘What I am asking you, Joe Sullivan, is when the car I have ordered is delivered, are you prepared to learn to drive it so that you can take me to the factory each day and bring me home each evening?’
Joe thought about it, but not for very long, because in his heart of hearts he thought he would probably settle to it better than factory work. He knew too that Brian wanted him to do this for him and he was a man used to getting his own way. If he refused he’d get someone else who was willing to do it and that would be an opportunity lost to Joe, and he sensed that Brian would be disappointed in him. So he said, ‘This seems to be a country where life refuses to stand still so I am willing to learn to drive a car if you want me to.’
‘Can’t say fairer than that,’ Brian said in approval, and he clapped Joe on the shoulder.
After dinner that first evening, Planchard introduced Joe to the rest of the staff. They had heard how he had rescued Miss Gloria, and at great risk to his own life, and so he was welcomed as something of a hero. Joe hadn’t grown up in a home where praise was customary and so he was embarrassed at the fuss made. He was also very tired, and was pleasantly surprised to be shown to the room in the basement that, Planchard told him, Mr Brannigan senior had specially built to house the servants.
He didn’t notice that it was basic and spartan, for he’d never had a bed, never mind a whole room, to himself before. And it had everything he needed. It housed an iron bedstead, a chest of drawers and a hanging rail, and to him it was like a little palace. He lay in that comfortable bed that first night amongst crisp clean sheets, under plenty of warm blankets covered with a bedspread, and was so happy that he had taken the plunge and come to America. He had the feeling that this was the sort of country where anything could happen, a true land of opportunity.
The following morning, Brian ordered a taxi for himself and Joe, using a telephone that he had had fitted in the house. Joe was astounded when he told him this.
‘You mean, sir, that you can just pick up a machine and talk to people miles away?’
Brian smiled at Joe’s astonished face. ‘That is the general idea,’ he said. ‘How else would the taxi firm know that I wanted them this morning?’
‘It’s almost unbelievable to me, sir,’ Joe said. ‘I know that you said I was to go into New York this morning to fetch the carriage back and I wasn’t sure how I was going to go in except maybe to use one of those frightening tram cars.’
‘No, Joe, not this morning,’ Brian said. ‘Though you will have to get to grips with those sooner or later. Today I am going with you because I want to see how Tim is faring. And don’t be in too much of a hurry to fetch the carriage back. Familiarise yourself with the place before you collect it because as it is Saturday today I will not be going to work and will have no urgent need of it.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Joe said, grateful for his employer’s consideration, because he had had only a glimpse of the city as the taxi had sped through the deepening dusk the evening before and he was dying to see more of it.
Just a short while later, after his second ride in a taxi, he stepped from it onto one of the crowded streets and looked about him. He could hardly believe that he was here at last, standing in New York City.
Used to winding country lanes, he was fascinated by the wide and perfectly straight streets and the way many of them had numbers instead of names. The city’s skyscrapers towered above him, and the size and variety of the shops and the goods they had on sale in their huge glass windows fairly dazzled him.
To all sides, people, seemingly of every colour and creed, thronged the pavements which Joe had heard tell were called sidewalks. He noted that though many folk spoke with the American drawl, there were plenty more with foreign accents or inflexions in their speech, and he knew it wasn’t just the Irish who were flooding American shores. New York truly was a cosmopolitan city and he felt privileged to be part of this New World. He vowed to store it all up to tell Tom in his letters home.
When he arrived back, later that morning, it was to learn that Tim the coachman had died in the night.
‘Poor fellow,’ McManus said. ‘Been here years, and then to end his days like that …’
All the staff were upset over Tim’s death, as was Brian Brannigan, although he was heartily glad that Joe had agreed to step into Tim’s shoes. Joe had surprised himself that morning by quite enjoying bringing the pony and carriage home. Bramble was a lovely little pony when he was not spooked by anything, and rattled along at a fair old rate.
Joe couldn’t help comparing Bramble to the farm horses back home. Their top speed was little faster than a man could walk briskly. He did agree with Brian, though, that the city streets were not so safe for horses any more. Soon Bramble would be sold on and it would be a car that Joe would be driving. That thought was a scary one. However, for now he had to care for the horses and it was Joe who drove the sombre Brannigan family to St Bridget’s church a few days later for Tim’s funeral.
The next day was Thanksgiving and a half-day off for Joe. And so, after tasting such delights as apple and butternut squash soup, pumpkin pie and Mayflower pudding, he decided to look up Patrick Lacey. He braced himself and went into the city on his first tramcar. Patrick lived in a downtown tenement, and McManus had given Joe instructions on how to find him in that maze of streets on the East Side. He found 57 Orchard Street fairly easily, but stood outside it for a moment or two, surprised by its seediness. It had not been what he had expected at all in this brave new world.
The tenement was just one of many, and built of dull grey brick, with an iron fire escape fitted to the side of it, running down to the ground, and which, to Joe’s surprise, was festooned with washing. There were few people about, but then the day wasn’t a pleasant one and the other servants had told him that on Thanksgiving Day most people got together with their families if they had any close by.
As he entered the tenement door, his nostrils were immediately assailed by a pungent smell that came, he supposed, from so many people crowded in together and he was glad that the smell got fainter when he reached the third floor where Patrick’s rooms were.
Patrick was delighted to see him and Joe noted his friend seemed taller somehow, and certainly broader than the man he remembered leaving Ireland’s shores.
‘Well, the American life seems to suit you well enough,’ he said as Patrick drew him inside. ‘You’re looking grand.’
‘Never mind me, you old codger,’ Patrick said. ‘Sit you down there and I will rustle us up some tea and then maybe you will tell me what has happened to you because all I have had so far is cryptic messages.’
Joe sat down on the battered sofa and in no time was nursing a cup of hot strong tea and regaling Patrick with his adventures since the incident at the docks.
Patrick listened flabbergasted. ‘You are one lucky sod,’ he remarked good-naturedly when Joe had finished. ‘Tom always used to say if you fell in a dung heap, you
