Running on Empty by Roger Barry

East Belfast, and took exception to Irish Catholics taking up work here in the Queens country. He was standing beside a wall Michael had completed the previous day. Michael knew what was coming. Conroy had the power to examine any work being done on site, and if he deemed it to be substandard, demand that it be torn down and redone, which would also have a detrimental effect on the worker’s wages. It irritated him that Michaels block laying could be done with such speed, yet without flaws.
    ‘And where have you been, Paddy. Do you have working hours that are special?’
    ‘No sir. I got permission off the site foreman Mr Conroy, and the names Michael by the way sir. I had an appointment in the hospital’.
    ‘And what seems to be the trouble Paddy, you look healthy enough to me’.
    ‘It’s ah, a private matter sir’.
    ‘I see. Private matters and hand-picked work hours, you seem to have a special set of rules, Paddy rules no doubt. Anyway, let’s take a look at this so called wall of yours’.
    He held a spirit level in his hand, and proceeded to place it at various different angles as he moved along the wall, checking. Then he produced a plumb line from his pocket, and again checked the wall, from a ladder this time. Eventually he climbed down, and turned to Michael.
    ‘I’m afraid this wall will have to be redone Paddy, tear it down’.
    ‘But, this wall is perfect Mr Conroy, I checked it was plumb and level with each course of blocks. It couldn’t be off’.
    ‘Are you calling me a liar Paddy? This wall is at least two degrees off. Now two degrees off might be fine for your mud huts over in Ireland, but here in London we like to build things right. Now, tear it down, or start walking Paddy’.
    It took Conroy some moments for his eyes to focus properly as he lay on the ground, finally realizing it was Michael he was staring up at.
    ‘The only thing that’s two degrees off around here is your jaw Conroy’ said Michael as he began to walk away. ‘Oh by the way’ he continued over his shoulder, ‘Paddy never did a thing to you. It was Michael who laid you on your back. Maybe you’ll remember the name now, seeing as how it was Michael Fahey who broke your jaw you arrogant Orange bastard’.

    ‘I lost my job Mary’
    ‘What? Why, how did that happen?’
    ‘Well, there was a bit of a dispute over two degrees, which kind of escalated into ninety degrees’.
    ‘I don’t understand’.
    ‘I decked the Clark of Works today’.
    ‘You what? So what are we going to do now?’
    ‘Ah, sure the work is beginning to dry up here anyway. I was thinking maybe it’s time we moved on.’
    ‘Move on to where?’
    ‘I heard there’s loads of work up for grabs in Paris.’
    ‘Paris? But, neither of us can speak French.’
    ‘Ah, sure we’ll get by. Just nod or shake your head or point to something until we get the hang of it. It can’t be that difficult to learn can it? Anyway, it’s time for me to go out on my own, work for myself like. I’m sick of working for monkeys, getting paid buttons when I do all the work. We’ll be fine.’
    ‘Yes, but Paris?’

    Michael Fahey sat on the chimney of a three storey building on Rue Jean de la Fontaine, taking a break from re-roofing as he ate a sandwich. Although he had four people working for him now, he still liked to get his hands dirty, the more difficult or precarious the job the better he liked it. He noticed a snake-like convoy winding its way through the street below, and it took him a few moments to register what he was looking at, a line of children being led back to Fondation d’Auteuil, the convent and orphanage a few buildings away.
    ‘Why don’t we adopt?’ was the first thing he uttered on arriving home.
    ‘What? Have you lost your mind, Michael Fahey?’
    ‘Probably, but sure isn’t that why you love me?’
    So, six months later, with the help of a locally requited solicitor, Mary stood on the steps of the orphanage holding a baby, with