Strumpet City (26 page)

‘Excellent,’ Yearling said, moving for his ’cello. On his way he rang for lamps. He was nervous of gas and electricity had not yet attracted his consideration.

They jammed the street in front of the station, a jumble of torches and banners, a tightly packed array that had generated a soul and a mind of its own, capable of response only to simple impulses, able to move itself, to emit a cry, to swing right or left, to stop altogether. They had come out
en masse
from the hovels and tenements, disrupting traffic, driving the respectable off the sidewalks. Their sudden arrogance was astonishing. Here and there Father O’Connor recognised a face. He stood on the steps leading down to the exit, knowing it was useless to try to pass through. The dizzy feeling which had made him so uncomfortable in the train attacked him again. It was dark, yet the street seemed unusually bright and certain faces seemed larger than others. He recognised Fitzpatrick, whom he had known for a long time, without pretending to; he knew the big man who walked by his side; he knew Rashers and the sickly little man who kept him company. ‘Release Larkin’ the banners said. ‘Arise, Ye Slaves’. They turned confusingly this way and that above the shoulders that bore them. The flaring torches were a melodramatic touch and, he thought, dangerous. He wondered how they were made. He stood with the other passengers on the steps—behind him the station where gas-lamps with pendant chains spread a sickly light between the platform and the soot-blackened canopy—in front of him the mob, the torches, the banners.

‘Stick close to me,’ Rashers advised.

Hennessy, already pressed painfully against him by the pressure of bodies, his arms pinioned and his hat coming down over his eyes, answered obscenely. It was a rare thing in Hennessy.

‘I’m surprised at you,’ Rashers said. He had the whistle under his coat and wrapped around it the paper with the words of his new ballad.

‘Wait’ll I sing my song for them,’ he said.

‘You’ll never be able to sing in this mob.’

‘Passed unanimously.’

‘Then what the hell are we getting walked on for?’

‘To be ready with the song when they reach Beresford Place before the speechifying starts.’

‘Did you see who was on the station steps?’

‘Give over gasbagging. I’m putting the words through my mind.’

‘Father O’Connor.’

Rashers, disturbed by the information, hesitated for a moment and was trampled on immediately. When he had released his feelings in a flow of bad language he asked:

‘Did he see us?’

‘How do I know?’

‘If he did I’ll never get the job back.’

‘Of course you’ll get the job back.’

‘The clergy is always giving out the pay about us socialists.’

This was news to Hennessy.

‘I never knew you were a friend of the cause.’

‘In times of crisis,’ Rashers said, ‘I’m a stalwart.’

‘When there’s a bit of money to be made out of trials and tribulations, I suppose.’

‘As Bard of the Revolution,’ Rashers said, remembering Pat’s phrase.

They reached a street junction and the pressure eased. Those at the sides held back, then fell in ranks behind the main body, five or six abreast.

‘It’s a great turn-out,’ Mulhall said to Fitz. He was a mountain of satisfaction.

‘Half of them are gapers.’

‘Some of them will join up.’

‘How many?’

‘Enough for our purpose.’

At least there had been a swing in public opinion. It was easy to judge that in the suddenly increased response to the collection boxes.

‘Maybe,’ Fitz said.

Mary would be by herself, looking down on the quiet back street, the room in half light about her because she would be saving oil by doing without the lamp. For him there was the excitement to keep the anxieties from growing too powerful. Tonight, when he felt the drag of the loaded shovel on his shoulders and the sweat trickling down his body, there would be the roar of the furnaces and at break times the conversation of his mates. She would be alone, with the two children of their marriage near at hand to keep doubt and fear in her heart.

‘They’ve been slow enough about joining,’ he added.

‘After this they’ll flock to us,’ Mulhall said. He was smiling and full of confidence.

At Beresford Place they formed into a meeting before the derelict block of buildings that had once been the Northumberland Commercial and Family Hotel. The torches went out one by one, night crept up the river and spread over the city. People in trains that passed from time to time across the loop-line bridge leaned out of windows to look down at the packed street while for some moments the speaker gesticulated and was unheard because of the trundling carriages. At half past eleven Fitz said to Mulhall:

‘I’d better move. I’m due in at twelve.’

Mulhall nodded.

Fitz worked his way slowly through the crowd, which was still dense. He was tempted to go home, to pick up on the sleep he had cut short in the daytime in order to walk the streets with his collection box, but he could not afford to lose a night’s pay.

Touching his pocket to feel if his supper was still there, he began to cross the bridge. To his left there were berthed ships, lying idle and deserted on the low tide. At the far end of the bridge a figure leaned on the parapet. At first he paid no attention, thinking it was a down-and-out or a drunk, using the parapet to rest against, but when he came abreast he realised that it was a priest. He went over and touched the shoulder.

‘Can I help you, Father?’

After a moment the other raised his head and looked around at him.

‘It’s nothing,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘a little turn.’ He had never spoken to Father O’Connor before. He thought it strange that he should meet him like this on the day the priest had decided to call on Mary.

‘I could get a cab for you.’

‘No . . . please.’ He hesitated. ‘I know you, I think—a parishioner.’

‘Fitzpatrick, Father.’

‘That’s it. Your wife, I think . . .’

Fitz made no offer to fill in the long pause.

‘I followed your meeting from the station and listened for a while. I began to feel unwell . . . the heat, probably.’

‘You should let me call a cab.’

‘No—I feel better in the air.’

Fitz hesitated.

‘Then let me walk back with you to the church.’

It would mean being late for work, and for a moment he hoped the other would refuse. But Father O’Connor accepted and said:

‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’

Fitz took his arm lightly. They walked in silence until they had left the river behind and were in the main thoroughfare once more. Father O’Connor released his arm and said he felt much better. Yet his face was drained of colour and he walked with a slight uncertainty.

‘I followed your meeting because I thought I might catch a glimpse of Mr. Larkin.’

‘He’s in gaol, Father.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Father O’Connor said, attempting a smile. ‘The extraordinary thing is I’ve known that since early afternoon.’

‘We’re trying to get him released.’

‘It’s an extraordinary thing,’ Father O’Connor said again. ‘I knew that and yet I followed with the idea . . .’ He stopped.

‘It was being unwell, I suppose. I was unwell and didn’t realise it. However, I’m much better now—thanks to you.’

‘You’re more than welcome, Father,’ Fitz said. They had reached the iron railings which cut off the courtyard of the church from the footpath. Fitz tried the side gate and found it open. He held it for the priest.

‘I’ve kept you from your home.’

‘Not at all, Father,’ Fitz said.

‘Do you often attend meetings of this kind?’

‘Whenever I can.’

Father O’Connor appeared to make a great effort of will.

‘You must be careful,’ he said. ‘There are men who pretend to have sympathy with the working men and the unemployed in order to win power for themselves—power for the socialists.’

‘I don’t know very much about these things, Father,’ Fitz said. He wanted to avoid an argument.

‘It’s an evil doctrine. You must be careful who you set up as your leaders.’

‘It isn’t difficult, Father. We haven’t had many to choose from,’ Fitz said. He was already late for work. The delay would cost him a quarter—three hours’ pay.

‘Guard your faith and listen only to those who honour it,’ Father O’Connor said. He spoke gently and, to Fitz, like one who was hearing his own voice from a distance. He looked very ill.

‘You should go in, Father,’ he urged.

‘Thank you,’ Father O’Connor said. His tone was warm. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’

Fitz raised his cap. His feet sounded loudly in the street. It was after midnight.

They arrived back at Chandlers Court within minutes of each other—first Rashers and Hennessy, then Mulhall alone.

‘You did well,’ Hennessy said in the hallway, ‘you did magnificent.’

‘One and threepence,’ Rashers agreed, with modesty.

‘I mean the ballad,’ Hennessy corrected. ‘It was a great success.’

‘Success is one thing,’ Rashers reminded him, ‘money is another.’

‘You got both.’

‘For once,’ Rashers allowed. He fumbled. ‘Have a cigarette.’

‘It’s too late.’

‘I took one from you out of your plenty. Now you take one of mine.’

‘I’ll take it upstairs with me.’

‘Bring it to bed with you if the fancy takes you that way.’

Hennessy pushed the cigarette behind his ear. It was pitch dark in the hall and there was an evil smell. Hennessy wrinkled his nose and sniffed.

‘Some bowsie did his what-you-know,’ he complained.

Rashers wasn’t squeamish.

‘It’s an old Dublin custom—there must have been a queue for the jakes.’

‘I can’t stand that,’ Hennessy said. ‘It’s the one thing I can’t abide.’

‘You worked in too many high-falutin’ houses—feeding yourself on grapes and delicacies.’

‘They were right at that meeting tonight. We live and die like animals. I’ll go on up. I can’t stick it.’

Rashers chuckled. As he was going he said:

‘Mind you don’t walk in it.’

Hennessy, his foot feeling out for the first rung of the stairs, froze for a moment. He picked his way delicately.

The door of Father Giffley’s bedroom opened and his voice called:

‘Father O’Sullivan . . .’

The corridor seemed unfamiliarly long. A gas-lamp at the far end, turned low, cast a blue half-light. Father O’Connor stopped.

‘It’s Father O’Connor,’ he managed after a while.

‘Oh—you.’ The voice changed. ‘Isn’t it rather late?’

With a great effort of will Father O’Connor pushed aside the temptation to ignore the question, to walk on to his bedroom and leave his superior standing there. For the moment he felt physically unable to bear up to criticism.

‘I was delayed.’

‘Please step into my room.’ Father Giffley had a dressing gown over his nightshirt and, incongruously, his priest’s biretta perched on his head. He seemed to have been reading. A black-covered book lay open, but face downwards, on a bedside chair.

‘Father O’Sullivan was obliged to go out on a sick call,’ he reproved. Father O’Connor should have been available. It was his duty period.

‘I felt unwell when I got off the train and did something quite unaccountable.’

‘Indeed.’

‘There was a protest march—banners, slogans, torches; the street in front of the station was packed with them.’

‘Until this hour?’ Father Giffley commented. He smiled humourlessly.

‘They were demanding Larkin’s release. I followed them to their meeting place. There were socialists on their platform and they listened with respect and cheered them. I heard a vile diatribe from one of them against the Church. They cheered him. Later—I don’t remember how—I found myself standing on Butt Bridge.’

Father Giffley stared at him and then, knitting his brows, asked: ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘I haven’t that habit,’ Father O’Connor said. The contemptuous phrase escaped him before he could stop it. It stung his conscience. Besides, it was a lie. He cast around for some way to correct himself, to say he had taken a little wine, but had not been drinking in the sense implied by Father Giffley. It was too difficult. The room, like the corridor, had a bluish tint which made his stomach unwell. He narrowed his eyes so that he would see as little of it as possible. A wave of nausea made him tremble.

‘May I sit down?’ he asked.

Father Giffley, detecting the tremor, waved towards a chair and peered at him.

‘A bilious attack. You have a very bad colour,’ he pronounced.

‘Please forgive me if I . . .’

‘A small drop of brandy is what you need.’

Father O’Connor shook his head.

‘You look as though you could do with it.’ The voice had grown a shade kinder.

‘No—I think if I lie down . . .’

‘As you please.’ Father Giffley turned his back. The movement was formal, deliberate.

‘So you followed the rabble. That’s interesting. And singularly unlike you.’

The voice was no longer kind. There was a glass-fronted bookcase in front of Father Giffley. He stared at it, as though trying to locate something. Father O’Connor kept silence.

‘Why?’ his superior asked.

Quietly, the emotion of an earlier moment moving in him again, Father O’Connor said: ‘They are being led away from us.’

‘Did you imagine you could bring them back—even if they were?’

‘Please,’ Father O’Connor pleaded. ‘I must go to bed.’

‘By threatening to change them into goats. That day has passed. Do you know whose fault that is?’

‘I am not well enough to discuss . . .’

‘Ours,’ Father Giffley answered, swinging about suddenly, ‘because we’ve watched in silence while the others turned them into animals.’

‘The devil is at work among them.’

‘The devil is busy everywhere, always; at work on them and at work on the others. He was busy here all day too.’

Father Giffley paused. Then he said: ‘For once his efforts were not very profitable.’

Father O’Connor wondered was he speaking of himself. But he was too sick to care. ‘May I go to bed?’ he asked.