The Mission of Martin O'shea

By John Stephens

Martin OShea was born in Dublin in one of the less salubrious parts of that beautiful city. He would tell you he was raised on the wrong side of the tracks by loving, but totally incompetent parents. They just could not cope with looking after themselves, let alone the five children, of whom Martin was the eldest.
Their house was a two up and two down on a housing estate where just about everybody was in the same boat. They were all skint. Furthermore they saw no prospects of ever becoming otherwise. The Irish lottery was their hoped-for fairy godmother but she seldom came up with the goods.
His dad knew all the neighbours on first-name terms and indeed managed to join many of them regularly in the local pub, there to consume copious amounts of Liffey water from the Guinness factory. It was best not to ask where the money came from.
Martins mother was one of those little women that you would pass in the street and never actually notice. Indeed you would be anxious not to notice her because she was able to talk the hind legs of a donkey without really saying anything. A sweet soul, but far out and without a constructive thought in her head.
Thus it was that Martin, whilst still in his late teens, decided that to avoid the sterile condition of his family he must do the traditional Irish thing and seek his fortune elsewhere. He didnt fancy joining the thousands of former countrymen in America, preferring to be a bit nearer home should he feel the need.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483699837

John Stephens

John Stephens is former president of the International Research Society for Children’s Literature and foundation editor of International Research in Children’s Literature (2008–2016). In 2007 he received the 11th International Brothers Grimm Award and in 2013 the Anne Deveraux Jordan Award, both given to recognize significant contributions to the field of children's literature in scholarship and service. He is author of several books and over a hundred articles.

Book preview

Chapter One

From Dublin to Supermarket

Martin O’Shea was born in Dublin in one of the less salubrious parts of that beautiful city. He would tell you he was raised ‘on the wrong side of the tracks’ by loving, but totally incompetent parents. They just could not cope with looking after themselves, let alone the five children, of whom Martin was the eldest.

Their house was a ‘two up and two down’ on a housing estate where just about everybody was in the same boat. They were all skint. Furthermore they saw no prospects of ever becoming otherwise. The Irish lottery was their hoped-for fairy godmother but she seldom came up with the goods.

His dad knew all the neighbours on first-name terms and indeed managed to join many of them regularly in the local pub, there to consume copious amounts of Liffey water from the Guinness factory. It was best not to ask where the money came from.

Martin’s mother was one of those little women that you would pass in the street and never actually notice. Indeed you would be anxious not to notice her because she was able to talk the hind legs of a donkey without really saying anything. A sweet soul, but far out and without a constructive thought in her head.

Thus it was that Martin, whilst still in his late teens, decided that to avoid the sterile condition of his family he must do the traditional Irish thing and seek his fortune elsewhere. He didn’t fancy joining the thousands of former countrymen in America, preferring to be a bit nearer home should he feel the need.

So it had to be London, where the streets would be paved with gold and all the girls would throw themselves at him because of his cute Dublin accent.

And so it was that, whilst still a fresh-faced seventeen-year-old he bought himself a ticket on the cross-channel ferry to England, travelling steerage class to seek his fortune. His only luggage was a small, battered cardboard suitcase with some of life’s essentials.

He did not know what might happen when he would arrive in England, which was perhaps as well because when the ferry tied up and they all streamed off, nothing did happen.

Everyone on the dockside was so very busy, going about their tasks with such a grim determination that he was totally ignored. Then soon it seemed that everyone had vanished, the place was almost empty. A policeman stood casually near a cigarette machine, a porter pushed a trolley to one side, and that was it. All gone. Coming from a claustrophobic Irish family of seven, for the first time in his life Martin felt all alone.

However, away from the dockside he managed to find a lorry driver who was taking a load into central London and agreed to take him.

That was his first piece of luck. He shared the driver’s cheese sandwiches before waving him goodbye and setting off on his own. Where to? No idea! What will be, will be, he sang silently to himself. Then it was ‘Danny Boy’, not that he was particularly fond of the song but he could not get it out of his head.

If you want to know the way, ask an English policeman, they always say. But there was never a policeman in sight. He tried to ask any passing stranger where was the nearest hostel but all he got was a stare, a shrug and maybe "no speak English’. It seemed that in England they were all like that. Black, brown, yellow or white, the one thing they all had in common was that none of them spoke the native language.

So Martin wandered aimlessly along the streets, past the shops and theatres, round the expensive-looking houses and blocks of flats until he could wander no more. Everyone had ignored him, in fact never even noticed him. And that was it. He was done. Bushed. He stopped in a doorway and leant against the wall.

He had not been there ten minutes before he realised that someone was looking at him. Across the road appeared a man, decidedly scruffy with a battered trilby hat at the back of his head. A comforting bottle protruded from the pocket of his long overcoat. He waved to Martin and came across to greet him.

Hello, he said, I’ve been watching you. You look lost. What are you doing here? Seems a funny place to be standing, so it does!

I’ve just come in from Dublin, replied Martin. Trying to find a hostel for the night.

Well you’ll not find one around here, mate, the stranger retorted. Much too posh for the likes of us! But you’re from Dublin, you say? I’m from County Kerry myself, a long time ago.

He looked steadily at Martin, as if trying to weigh him up. He noted the soft, youthful face, blue eyes and blond hair. Then he sidled up to him, put his arm around his neck and rubbed himself against his side.

I live here, he said, waving his free arm expansively to indicate everything in sight. This is my territory. Good to have you aboard! As he spoke the smell of second-hand booze wafted over Martin.

He quickly disengaged himself from the man’s embrace. He was not particularly religious but he remembered some of the ‘dos and don’ts’ from the priest in the pulpit. And here was a definite ‘no-no’. He looked at the man from Kerry with disgust.

You’ve got the wrong man here, he said quietly. I’m not one of your sort so don’t go getting any ideas. What you do is your business but it isn’t mine. And man, you stink to high heaven. Take a bath some time!

The Kerryman’s attitude changed in an instant. He withdrew his arm and stepped back, giving Martin a glare of pure malice. So we’re all hoity-toity are we, he almost snarled. You’d better find somewhere else to sleep. We’re all friends round here, so we are. Don’t need your sort. So sling your hook. Get lost!

He hurled a string of abuse at Martin’s back as he turned to get away from his would-be lover. The very thought of being too close to that guy was repulsive, whether he was a fellow countryman or not. So he was on the move again.

*     *     *     *     *     *

By late afternoon Martin was beginning to despair. He had heard of a hostel for homeless vagrants a few miles away across town but he had no energy left to tramp across London to find it. By now, reality was catching up with him. He was on the bare, cold street with not a comfort in sight.

It was then that he passed the back yard of a supermarket. Large cardboard boxes, paper and polystyrene wrappings were scattered all over the place. Maybe he could make a little tent for himself out of some of them.

As he approached the yard, a girl in the uniform of the supermarket appeared with more cast-off papers. She looked at him sympathetically, for he was a handsome lad and clearly was about to find nesting material.

Martin hesitated, then moved forward again toward the waste collection. She watched him with interest.

You’ll be wanting some boxes, I suppose, like everyone else around here, she challenged him. You can have one or two if you like. No-one will mind.

He thanked her, said yes, that was the idea. Then a thought struck him. You wouldn’t have any thrown-out sandwiches or whatever, would you? I have not eaten since early morning.

It was her turn to hesitate. Well, maybe, she said. At this time of day there is usually stuff that’s out of time.

After a pause she told him, Wait here a minute, I’ll see what there is. She went back into the building, to emerge a few minutes later with a plastic bag.

There you are, she said with a beaming smile, there’s a lot of sandwiches and sausage rolls in there. That should keep you going for a bit!

Martin was delighted. By now he was very hungry and had seen no obvious way of getting any food, just fruit that might drop from a stall in the market.

You’re Irish, aren’t you? she asked. My mum came from Cork a few years ago. There’s a lot of Irish around here!

Martin gave a grim smile. Yeah, I just met one a while ago. Said he came from Kerry. The Atlantic coast, and all that. He stank so much a good swim in the sea wouldn’t hurt him! Mind you, it might be unfair to the local fish, though! He’d make the water smell1

Bad as that, eh? she laughed. This guy was cute, with his Dublin accent. But seriously, where are you going to sleep? You had better be careful, there’s some pretty rough people round here. You are a sitting duck if you’re not careful

Yes, replied Martin replied, but I’m not meaning to stay on the streets. I’m looking for a hostel. Do you know of one?

"Hmm, well, I’ve never