Strumpet City (21 page)

‘A bargain is a bargain,’ Pat insisted.

Mr. Donegan, noting the barefooted, coatless, ridiculously dogged cut of him, gave it up. He had found the measure of his man. His confidence was unprofessional, but complete.

‘All right,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders, ‘if it pleases you, it pleases me.’

Pat put the money in his pocket and made immediately for Chandlers Court. He could not bear to have them think her dishonest, a common tart who took whatever she could get. The night was warm, the side streets almost deserted, a sickle moon poised gracefully above them and touched the roof-tops with silver. He climbed the stairs without meeting anybody and tapped at the door. It took Fitz some time to recognise his caller.

‘Where were
you
all day?’ he asked.

‘I went to see Lily,’ Pat said. He was searching in his pockets. Fitz felt on his palm the tiny weight of the two sovereigns. He was moved, by loyalty, by generosity, by that superb quality in Pat’s love for others which made his personality something of a riddle.

‘You’re far too generous. And, besides, I told you there was no hurry.’

‘They’re safer with you than lying about in Lily’s place,’ Pat said. He was elaborately offhand.

‘You’re a real friend in need,’ Fitz said, touched.

‘For nothing,’ Pat said.

‘Aren’t you coming in for a minute?’

‘No—it’s a bit on the late side. How did things go?’

‘Larkin addressed the dockers. We think the port is completely closed—but we can’t be sure until tomorrow.’

‘I heard there was trouble.’

‘A bit. I got a clatter myself.’

‘So I see,’ Pat said, acknowledging the bandage. ‘Sorry I wasn’t there.’

Fitz wondered at this apparent lack of curiosity.

‘Come in and we’ll talk.’

‘No,’ Pat said, ‘I have to get along. See you sometime tomorrow.’ He turned to go, then turned back.

‘Just one little favour.’

‘Of course,’ Fitz said.

‘I didn’t like what Joe said today.’

‘Neither did I. I told him off.’

‘Would you let him know when you see him that Lily was all right.’

Fitz knew what he meant. He said he would.

‘And Mulhall?’

‘I’ll tell both of them.’

‘Thanks,’ Pat said. ‘She’s a straight girl—and I want them to know that. Good luck.’

‘Thanks,’ Fitz said. Pat waited until he had dosed the door. Then he went down the stairs and out again into the streets. He passed under a gas-lamp and into the shadows. A passerby stared after him, puzzled by his noiselessness, but the night hid his want and left him wondering.

On the following day the dockers continued their strike. Stevedores read out names to knots of men who listened in silence and then moved away, ships tied up and remained idle and untouched in calm water under a lazy sun. For over a week nothing moved along the port. There were policemen everywhere, or so it seemed, parading in groups and looking grim and businesslike, but finding very little to do. Even the mass meeting of dockers at which they had pledged themselves to remain out until the carters’ grievances had been dealt with remained orderly. Fitz heard Larkin again that night and wondered at the magnetism of the man as the crowd cheered and the flares of the torch-bearers tossed about the platform, painting shadows on hungry faces that peered under peaked caps. Most of them had empty pockets, bare rooms to return to, bread and tea to kill hunger with and no assurance of strike pay or any kind of relief. Yet they cheered when he said he could promise them nothing except hardship, and felt that somewhere at the end of the road there was a better world waiting. Like heaven, it was very far away, and like heaven it would be very hard to reach. Yet where before the only certainty had been obscurity and want, now at least there was that hint of hope. Hope for what, Fitz in the calm after the speechmaking, could not quite remember. He could only remember that it had been there, that it had infected him in company with thousands of others crushing and jostling and listening; perhaps it was a feeling of movement that remained, a journey beginning, a vague but certain purpose.

Whatever it was, it served Rashers well. People parted with pennies and halfpennies when he moved among the gatherings, singing in his cracked voice before the speakers mounted the platform. He had a fortnight of unusual prosperity. Then the Government, alarmed at a situation for which there was no precedent, intervened by calling a meeting of the interested parties at Dublin Castle and setting up a board of conciliation to examine and recommend new conditions for wages and hours of work. Mr. Sexton, seeing the moment ripe to reassert his authority, crossed over from Liverpool and decided to represent the union in his capacity as general secretary. On his advice the men agreed to return to work pending the outcome. Rashers found the ballad still good for a few pence on Saturday nights, until his clients learned that Sexton, not Larkin, would carry on the negotiations. The disappointment had its effect on Rashers’ income and the ballad, though useful, ceased to be the money-earner it had been.

Mr. Doggett, having met the general wage demand, was anxious to clean the slate of the other outstanding irritation. He informed the foundry that he would accept responsibility for the few shillings overtime pay that had caused the dispute. Nolan & Keyes did likewise. The whole transaction cost less than five pounds and the men concerned received three shillings each. Mulhall, meeting Fitz on the stairs, offered him a drink on the strength of it.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he said.

It was August. The trams were bringing back visitors from the Horse Show at Ballsbridge, the streets were beginning to breathe again after the drenching sun of the afternoon.

Mulhall paid and said immediately: ‘It’s about Sexton taking over the negotiations. Most of us feel Larkin should have been allowed to carry it on.’

Fitz felt the same way, but he knew there was little they could do.

‘Sexton is general secretary. He can overrule Larkin anytime he likes. At the same time I don’t see why he should come into it now.’

‘Because Larkin’s tactics don’t suit,’ Mulhall said, ‘they cost too much money. And it’s going to remain that way until we break away and form a union of our own.’

‘I’ve heard that being talked about,’ Fitz said.

‘With Larkin as general secretary,’ Mulhall added. He paused and drank. ‘What do you think about that?’

Fitz hesitated.

‘I agree that we should start on our own,’ he said carefully, ‘but not just yet. We’ll need money. After the knocking around we’ve taken during the past few months we need time to find our feet again.’

‘I know, but we can make a beginning. Will you do your bit on the organising end?’

‘In the foundry—yes.’

‘That’s enough for a start. Myself and a few others will be moving around the jobs generally. We may have to be ready quicker than you think—and I’ll tell you why. Larkin may be prosecuted by the union—for misappropriation of funds.’

It took Fitz some time to grasp his meaning.

‘What funds?’

‘The money he collected in Cork.’

‘But that was paid out.’

‘It was paid out to us in Dublin. Their case is that it was collected for the National Union of Dockers and should have been sent on to Liverpool first. It’s a legal wrangle, but they’ve written to the committee about it.’

‘What’s their reason?’

‘It’s clear enough to me,’ Mulhall said. ‘He’s called too many strikes without consulting them. They’ll move heaven and earth to stop him doing it.’

Mulhall finished his pint.

‘So we need a union of our own. Are you still backing us?’

Fitz, remembering the meetings, put aside his other doubts and said: ‘I’m with Larkin—all the way.’

‘Good,’ Mulhall said. He indicated the empty glass.

‘Have another.’

‘No thanks,’ Fitz declined. ‘I’m on shift at twelve. But we’ll talk again.’

‘I’m glad you’re with us,’ Mulhall said, ‘you’re important.’ He reached out his hand. It was a formality Fitz had not expected.

‘Thanks,’ he said, taking it warmly.

‘I beg your pardon, Father.’

The paper lay on the breakfast table between them. Father O’Sullivan had the right to pick it up first, but the headlines had roused Father O’Connor’s curiosity. He reached out his hand.

‘Certainly,’ Father O’Sullivan said. He had a large, benevolent face.

‘Just the headlines.’

Father O’Sullivan motioned with a large benevolent hand to explain that it didn’t matter.

‘Strikes in Cork and Derry: Larkin’s Answer to exclusion from Conciliation Board. Expulsion Certain, confirms Sexton.’

It was everywhere, this upheaval, a symptom of materialistic thinking spreading through the whole of Irish society. He would give warning from the pulpit.

‘Thank you, Father,’ he said, not bothering to read further.

He saw now that it would have been a mistake to distribute the food to the strikers. It was as well they had refused. Relief would only prolong their miseries and strengthen the hold of their leaders. There were others who could be served, neglected and harmless creatures who were hungry too. The old. He should have thought in the first place of the old.

Near Christmas he told Hegarty and Keever to dispose of the parcels to the aged of the parish, provided they were not mixed up with the troublemakers. Keever made out his list. He was more prudent this time. The parcels were accepted gratefully. One learned, Father O’Connor reflected, however painfully, to separate the sheep from the goats. Some months earlier the true meaning of the phrase would not have been clear to him. Now he saw that it applied even to charity. It was sad. It was painful. It was true.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

They sheltered in the gateway while the east wind, beating up the river, brought a sudden flurry of snow with it. Many of the gateways facing on to the river were closed. Once again, at intervals of a hundred yards or so, groups of carters were picketing.

‘A white Christmas,’ Fitz said, ironically.

Mulhall, looking at the cold, white spray that broke along the water, said: ‘And a hungry one.’

It was rough, being on strike for the second time within a few months. But the carters were a determined crowd. Larkin’s expulsion from the Liverpool union had left the road open for the formation of a union of his own. He had taken it. The carters were his first members.

‘Are you getting strike pay regularly?’

‘It hasn’t failed yet.’

‘Where does Larkin get it from?’

‘A mystery,’ Mulhall admitted, ‘but he always finds it somehow. Maybe the clergy are right. He’s in league with oul Nick.’

‘We had a meeting at the foundry last night,’ Fitz told him. ‘We’re all transferring to the new union.’

‘You had a hand in that, I’d say.’

‘I gave you a promise.’

‘That’s what I meant,’ Mulhall acknowledged.

‘It was easy. They all want to be with Larkin.’

‘When is it to happen?’

‘Tomorrow evening. We’re going over in a body.’

‘Good,’ Mulhall said, ‘we’ll all be together again.’

‘We can levy right away to help the strike fund for you fellows.’

Mulhall nodded. The curtain of snowflakes had thinned. The air became clear. They began to walk home together. It was a desolate walk, with the east wind freezing their limbs and putting an edge on appetites they could not hope to satisfy. The streets were muddy and scattered with puddles. One stretched almost the entire width of a laneway. Mulhall waded straight through but Fitz picked a passage around the edges. His boots were leaking.

Mary was almost certain she was going to have a baby. It was another strong reason for avoiding trouble. The savage militancy of the new movement had bothered him throughout the whole of the autumn. Many a time, while the city slept and he broke off stoking to eat the supper Mary had made up for him, he had stared at the glowing frames of the furnace openings which spread in line down No. 2 House, feeling the bond between himself and that glowing gallery of fires. When he fed them they in turn fed him; if he let them go out there would be nothing for the home and nothing for the table. Sooner or later Larkin would call on him again to starve them and starve in turn himself. Sometimes, when turning to say goodbye to Mary in the evenings he would see through the large windows behind her the roofs of houses on the far side, their broken slates a dark blue under a sky that was taking a long time to get rid of the day, and she would seem so lonely and unprotected that it felt like the act of a traitor not to grasp tightly for her sake to the little bit of security that offered. But he had come to see that the security itself was a mirage; people he did not know and would never meet decided its extent and continuance for reasons that suited only themselves. He and the others did not count.

On Christmas Day Mary gave half of what they had to the Mulhalls; Mrs. Bartley thought of Rashers and saved a piece of cake for him; Rashers, in turn, invited Hennessy to the boiler house of St. Brigid’s Church on the Feast of the Epiphany. Father O’Connor had re-employed him as boilerman for the season and the housekeeper had promised to give him his breakfast in the kitchen, a privilege of boilermen, which had become traditional in the parish. Hennessy waited for him in the boiler house itself. It lay under the back of the church, down stone steps that were surrounded by iron railings. A small furnace stood in the centre, and there was enough room to accommodate the couple of broken chairs between it and the coke from which Rashers fed it. He opened the door of the furnace and extended his hands to the warmth. Then he lit the candle which stood on a ledge in the stonework. The wavering light showed up walls that were thickly coated with black dust and ancient webs so encrusted that they hung like rags from the corners of the ceiling. He jumped when Rashers came suddenly behind him.

‘You took a start out of me,’ Hennessy confessed.

‘Sit where you are,’ Rashers ordered.

It was only a dirty hole under the church, but it was warm and dry and for a season it was his. The fact gave him the right to play host.