James Benn: Billy Boyle

I thought about what Uncle Dan, with a good dose of Irish Republican reality, would have to say about the British Empire and its capital city, London. I walked on, my feet starting to ache and a gritty tiredness creeping up on my eyelids. It was still light out and too early to hit the hay, so I trudged on, wanting to case the layout of the city streets as much as I could.

I was on Whitehall Street, another famous name symbolizing the British government, a street that Uncle Dan would spit on with joy. Whitehall emptied out into a big square, with a large water fountain in the center and a big, tall column off to the right. Trafalgar Square and the column dedicated to Admiral Nelson. Traffic flowed around the fountain, and young girls, walking arm in arm with guys in uniform from half a dozen countries, craned their necks up and stared. I heard English, French, and other languages I guessed were Polish and Dutch. I heard a Brooklyn accent and a couple of southern drawls, too, but no Boston accents, no one to remind me of home. I put my head down, feeling alone and tired, and turned right, away from the gaiety and this symbol of English world dominance.

I wandered down a crowded wide street jammed with traffic and pedestrians for a while but took a left into a more interesting little side street, deciding to try to loop around and find my way back to the hotel. Wellington Street-geez, did the English name everything after generals and admirals? Anyway, Wellington Street reminded me a little bit of Boston with its shops and narrow, curved turns. Coming from the direction of the river, the smells and the small streets almost made me nostalgic for my waterfront beat in the North End of Boston. I used to patrol the wharves along Commercial Street, and then turn in on Battery Street to check the shops on Hanover, all the way down to Haymarket and city hall. That was my first assignment as a bluecoat outside of South Boston, and it made me feel like a man of the world.

I first worked out of Station 12, at the corner of Fourth and K Street in Southie. I could walk to work, and my beat took me along F Street, right past the five-and-ten and Kresge’s, where I used to beg my mom to take me to shop for toys when I was a kid. I’d walk by the big glass windows and practice twirling my baton, like Dad taught me, dreaming of the day I’d be a detective, just like he was. Some days, I didn’t feel that much older than the kid who used to press his face against those store windows and dream of buying one of those six-gun cap pistols with belt and holster, just like Tom Mix. But that was the beginning of the Depression, and those six-guns gathered dust, until one day just before Christmas. They were gone, replaced by a display of matching knickers, mittens, and wool cap. I remember thinking that my folks had to have been the ones who bought them, skipping home through dirty slush, counting the mornings left until Christmas.

But there was no gunfight at the OK Corral for me that Christmas. I can still remember my heart breaking when my mom proudly gave me my present, a shoebox wrapped in tissue paper, too small and light to hold a Tom Mix six-shooter. She had knitted me socks, thick wool socks in an argyle pattern, and a set for my brother, same thing but in different colors. His were green and mine were red. Christmas colors. I threw the box down and bit my lip, far too old at ten to cry. Funny thing was, my mom cried. Then I did, too, and finally Danny joined in, just for the hell of it, I guess, since he was too young to know what was going on. Dad sat there, gripping his pipe in his mouth, nearly snapping the stem in his teeth, but not saying anything. Next Christmas, I got a double set of cap pistols, silver with white handles, and the holsters even had those strings so you could tie them down to your legs. Danny got a train set, and I was jealous until I realized he couldn’t have it set up all the time, but I could strap on my six-shooters and blast rolls of caps anytime.

It was still the Depression, but something had changed in our house. Dad started bringing presents home, and not just for special occasions either. On a regular weekday, he’d show up with a new coat for one of us, or canned hams, or bottles of whiskey, maybe a toaster. Stuff like that could sit on store shelves for months waiting for somebody with cash left over after paying the rent and the coal bill and the grocery tab to come along and take a fancy to it. But at our house, it was more like the stuff took a fancy to us and just started showing up.

When I finally got a transfer out of Southie, after walking a beat for a couple of years after I graduated from high school, it meant that I could be trusted as a rookie cop, that my desk sergeant, who was my second cousin, thought I could work on my own without a dozen relatives checking up on me every day.

I loved the waterfront, everything from the smell of salt water, oil, and dead fish to city hall, tipping my hat to Mayor Tobin once in a while and then doing the loop again, watching the ships come and go, thinking about where they were bound. How many ships did I watch steam off that ended up docking in the Thames? I never would’ve thought I’d end up here, too. I made a motion with my hand as if I were twirling my old baton, walking my beat, familiar territory beneath my feet. I wondered about the question Harding had asked me. Would I run into a burning London house to save an unknown English life, or would I stand by, waiting for the bobbies to show up? There was nothing in it for me, but I had a hard time picturing myself on the sidelines. I whistled a jig and went back to pleasanter thoughts, smiling at the memory of carrying fish home on the trolley from the market on Fish Pier. Everyone wanted a patrolman around, and there’d be no end to the cod and mackerel wrapped in newspaper and smelling of brine and ice you’d have pressed on you of a Friday afternoon.

Memories made me feel lonely, so I looked around for a distraction, and saw the Coach amp; Horses Pub, the front painted in a deep, dark red and a hand-lettered sign in the window that said ALWAYS SOMETHING READY TO EAT and DRAUGHT GUINNESS. Now it felt more like Boston, and this was a memory I didn’t mind. I went in.

Inside the pub, dark wood paneling, the color of brown shoe polish, lined the walls. Small lamps every few feet provided the only illumination. Cigarette smoke dulled the air while loud voices and laughter from the rear floated up to lighten the atmosphere. Couples sat at tables in the back and two silent older civilians occupied stools at the bar, pints before them in various stages of consumption. I took an empty seat at the end, and then realized I still didn’t have any English money. I would trade dollars for pounds tomorrow, but I wanted a Guinness today.

“What’ll it be, Yank?”

“A pint of Guinness, if you’ll take American money.”

“You’ve got no pounds nor pence then?”

“I just got here this morning. I haven’t had time to exchange my money.”

“I don’t know…” The barman had an uneasy look, as if he thought I was pulling a fast one.

“Oh come on, Bert,” one of the guys at the bar said. “Give the lad a break and take his money. He’s come all the way from America just today!”

He smiled and winked at me, his grin showing gaps in his teeth. He wore blue coveralls, like I had seen on the workmen at the bombed-out building earlier that morning. His hands were rough and callused and his gray hair stuck out in wisps above his ears. He had an easy laugh that broke down into a smoker’s wheeze that he treated with a pull on his pint.

“A pint of Guinness costs a quarter back in Boston,” I said, trying to be helpful.

“A quarter of wot?” Bert’s face scrunched up as he tried to figure out what I meant.

“Quarter of a dollar. Twenty-five cents. How about I give you a dollar and that should be more than enough for a pint for me and one each for my friends here?” I nodded in the direction of my bar mates.