Strumpet City (29 page)

‘No fire to cock your behind to tonight, Rusty,’ he said. The dog sat down on the clay floor, first to scratch itself, then to sniff at the accumulated odours, his nose detecting and defining delicately the week’s trespassers.

‘Have they been here?’ Rashers questioned. He was taking off his clothes.

‘You’re not to go eating them,’ he warned. ‘Chase them if you want to—kill them with my full licence and leave; but don’t devour them. Don’t even taste them. The rats in this bloody place would poison you.’

He lay back on the bedding and adjusted the rags about him.

‘Anyway, we have some tasty morsels here.’

From the sack near his head he selected food, giving portion of it to the dog. Both began to eat. For tonight, at least, there was enough and plenty. He put a little of the meat aside to give to Mrs. Bartley and the children. It would be nourishing for them and there would be luck in the eating of it, since it had come from the table of the priest. Good luck and bad luck wandered the streets outside, invisible, so that you never knew until afterwards which of the pair you had been meeting up with. Above the streets were God and His Mother, His saints, His angels. Sometimes, if the luck was too persistently bad, one or other of them might intervene to help you out. They had done so for Rashers. Brushing the crumbs from his beard, he gave thanks. He was stretching out his hand to put out the candle when someone knocked at the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Hennessy.’

‘Come in.’

Hennessy was wearing an unfamiliar bowler and a coat that was too large for him.

‘Style—begod,’ Rashers commented.

‘I was given them from a house in Nutley Lane,’ Hennessy said. ‘What are you lying there for?’

‘I’m in bed—a most respectable place to be.’

‘You should be above in the streets singing ballads. Such excitement. Did you not meet up with any of it? There was a procession and speeches.’

‘I declare to God the Parnell anniversary parade. And I never thought of it.’

‘That’s not until next week.’

‘It’s no use anyway,’ Rashers said, ‘they’re not very givish with the money.’

‘They’ve released Larkin,’ Hennessy explained. ‘The Viceroy himself ordered it. The Irish flag and the stars and stripes is flying outside 10 Beresford Place and there’s a meeting going on this past hour. Get up and come round to it with your ballad.’

Rashers shook his head. He had eaten; he had drawn his ten shillings wages. Besides, he was not feeling too well.

‘I’m not up to the mark,’ he said. ‘The oul chest. And the leg is giving me hell.’

The bowler was too big for Hennessy. He pushed it up off his forehead.

‘It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.’

‘No,’ Rashers said, ‘sing it for them yourself.’

Hennessy wondered would he. It would earn money. There were thousands crammed in the street outside the union hall. They would be there for about an hour more; longer, if Larkin decided to speak again. But he had never yet, in the extremes of his neediness, tried singing as a livelihood. It would be a step nearer to beggary. It surprised him to find that there was a step still below him. He would work at anything; he would scrounge and borrow; he would not stand in the street and sing. With tact, he said:

‘I wouldn’t have the voice.’

‘I’ve heard to the differ—that you’re a great hand at a song or a recitation.’

‘I haven’t the right kind of voice for the outdoor stuff.’

‘Try the pubs.’

‘No,’ Hennessy said, ‘it’s your ballad. I wouldn’t make use of it.’

‘Please yourself,’ Rashers said.

Disappointed, Hennessy moved towards the door.

‘Before you go,’ Rashers said, ‘take a swig of this.’

‘Glory be to God!’ Hennessy exclaimed, when he saw the bottle. He took out the cork and swallowed.

‘You’re welcome to your half—if you care to stay.’

Tempted, Hennessy hesitated. But he thought of the crowds, the speeches, the excitement. Something might happen, something that had never happened before and, as like as not, would never happen again.

‘No. I’ll get back. I wouldn’t care to miss what’s going on.’

‘Please yourself,’ Rashers said again.

‘Well . . . I hope your chest improves. A good night’s rest works wonders.’

The door dosed. Rashers, disappointed in his turn, reached once more for the candle, smothering the flame between his finger and thumb. The dog whimpered. Rusty would stay with him, anyway.

When Rashers lay down he fell asleep, but after an hour or less he woke up coughing. He groped again for the whiskey. At the first gulp his cough got worse. At the second it stopped. Now that he knew where the housekeeper kept it, there was always the chance of acquiring a little from time to time. They sent him to the kitchen on and off for messages. Quite often there was nobody there. A drop now and then for medicine, to help him sleep. There wouldn’t be any great harm in that. ‘Well—we’ll see,’ he said aloud to the dog. He took a third swig for good measure. He lay back then and slept right through until the morning.

While he did so the submerged city continued to gather at Beresford Place. They were coming out
en masse
once again, as Father O’Connor had seen them do only a few months previously, coming from hovels and tenements, flaunting their rags and their destitution, disrupting traffic and driving the respectable off the pavements. Once again their arrogance astounded the press, which brought the whole story to Father O’Connor at breakfast the next morning. He was disturbed, for it appeared now that some of the well-to-do class had spoken from Larkin’s platform congratulating him on his release, describing it as a victory for the workers of Dublin.

‘Can you tell me who Countess Markiewicz is, Father?’ he enquired, over his paper.

Father O’Sullivan thought very hard but had to acknowledge that he did not know. He was not greatly interested in such things. Father Giffley, who was also at table, did. However, he did not feel like enlightening Father O’Connor; instead, he held out his cup to him, requesting more tea with an aloof movement of his eyebrows.

For brief moments over an endless day it was the iron end-piece of a bed, the rough boards of the ward, a nurse, an old woman in a shapeless grey dress. It was a face filling the whole of the visible, bending. But for long periods it was the laneway at home, winding between ash and sycamore, with blue sky and white cloud above the branches of trees, so dizzily bright that when you stared too long it all swung upside down and you fell in. In the house it was evening with shadows already in the corners and the fire burning high on the hearth. You took food on a tray to the loft where among sacks and oddments two bearded faces turned towards you when you entered. They took the food and said ‘Thank you’ in very good voices indeed. Once, one of them, the younger one who was very manly and handsome said:

‘How old are you, Sara?’

‘Seventeen, sir.’

‘You mustn’t call me sir—I’m only twenty. Do you think we will escape?’

‘I pray for it—I keep praying.’

‘You’re very kind, Sara. And you’re terribly pretty.’

‘No, indeed.’

‘But yes, Sara. I hope you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘I don’t mind.’

Why would you mind? It was forward but not when a young man was about to be captured and to die maybe, not then. Or the evening when he came down to the kitchen and asked if he might speak to you for a little while. Or the morning the soldiers came and his eyes, the way they looked at you as they took him away. You walked again among the ash and the sycamore and in the terrible silence that would never more be broken it was the look in the eyes you remembered. She would never breed men like that again, Ireland of the heroes and the songs and the great deeds. It was strange you could remember forever a young face and strong fingers reaching to take bread from a platter and a voice saying ‘You’re terribly pretty’ and a look in a pair of going-away eyes. It was ash and sycamore, it was shadows and a fire, it was bare boards and a nurse and the end-piece of an iron bed.

She stirred and felt she must sit up. Just once, before she gave in finally to the weariness and the sickness. It was hard though, to overcome it. Several times she tensed the muscles and levered on her elbows and thought at last she was sitting up; yet when she shook her head to clear it she was still lying down and had not stirred at all. Was she, then, powerless? For ever? She tried again and again, until at last she found she was really and truly off her back. Not sitting up, she discovered, but raised, supported by her elbows, seeing the beds about her, some empty, some occupied. It was morning, she thought. Those not in bed were busy with small tasks. None of them seemed to notice her. She tried to talk to the woman in the bed beside her but succeeded only in making noises. She persisted, searching for speech until at last the head turned towards her. The eyes stared at her and the voice called out:

‘Nurse . . . Nurse . . . come quickly.’

The rest stopped what they were doing to turn and stare. Then she saw the whole face clearly, a grey, alarmed face with a single brown snot oozing down in a thin line from one nostril to the mouth. She thought of her snuff and knew that she had found out at last. Her speech came back to her suddenly, in a storm of shock and anger.

‘It was you, you bitch,’ she screamed, ‘it was you that robbed me.’

The nurse had reached her and was about to push her back. There was no need. Her elbows slid gently under her of their own accord, her body, of its own accord, settled back again on the mattress. There was no further movement in the face and, when the nurse took the wrist, no further movement discernible in the pulse. She went for the doctor. He took his time about coming. When he arrived it was only to draw the coarse sheet over Miss Gilchrist’s face.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

The morning was bright, the sky high and blue, on the walls of gardens not yet reached by the sun the frost was a black gleam. The carriage, as it swayed on the cobbles past the grounds of Blackrock College, gave views of the sea on the right, a wide sweep of water, a great chilled sparkle. Mrs. Bradshaw found it cold. She wrapped her furs more closely about her, reconsidering their itinerary. First to Father O’Connor, to tell him what she proposed to do. He had sent word to her immediately, asking for her instructions. He would do everything for her, of course, he would arrange all from beginning to end. But she did not want it that way. There were some things which must be attended to personally. This was one of them, a matter of individual responsibility, a question of conscience. If Mr. Bradshaw found out he would fume and rant. If necessary, that would have to be faced. For too long now the fate of her one-time servant had haunted her mind. In the little service that was left to be done to Miss Gilchrist she would not fail.

Father O’Connor, summoned to the waiting room, was surprised, she could see that. It was early. Outside, the bell was still being rung for the ten o’clock mass. A deformed and bearded creature had been dragging fiercely on the rope when she entered the church grounds. She knew what she was going to say to Father O’Connor when he protested—as he would. He would not think it fitting that she should visit Mary Fitzpatrick. She prepared herself to be inflexible.

‘Mrs. Bradshaw . . .’ Father O’Connor said, advancing to greet her.

‘You’re surprised to see me, Father?’

‘I intended to call out to you this morning. You shouldn’t have troubled to come all the way in . . .’

‘I’ve made up my mind what should be done. Miss Gilchrist will have a funeral.’

‘But of course, I’ve notified the authorities already that there must be no question of a pauper’s grave.’

‘I mean a proper funeral, with some carriages following.’

‘Carriages?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘Is that necessary?’

‘I feel it is.’

‘But—who will travel in them?’

‘She had one friend—Mary Fitzpatrick. If Mary and her husband and perhaps one or two of their friends went, it would be perfect.’

‘But . . . unnecessary, surely?’

‘For me,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said, ‘it is very necessary that this should be done as I know Miss Gilchrist would wish. Now—I want you to give me Mary Fitzpatrick’s address.’

‘Do you intend to call on her?’

‘I do.’

The answer left Father O’Connor without words. He had been standing. Now he walked to the corner of the room, took a chair and brought it to the table. He sat down.

‘Have you any idea of the surroundings you are going to visit?’

‘A tenement room?’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. ‘My husband owns several housefuls of them. There are, I understand, thousands of them. Aren’t they part of our city?’

‘They are part of our city, but not necessarily fitting places to be visited.’

Mrs. Bradshaw bowed her head. She looked down at the gloved hands which lay joined on her lap.

‘You, of all the people I know, should recognise this feeling, this absolute necessity . . .’

She stopped and looked up suddenly at him. Her eyes appealed for his understanding. He knew what she meant. No words of his would clear her of the guilt that she felt. Only restitution, given in the form which seemed to her to be fitting, would do that.

‘You are not responsible,’ he said to her. ‘You did not decide the matter. Besides, in all the circumstances—what else was there to do?’

‘I’ve asked myself that many times.’

‘And you still don’t know—isn’t that so?’

‘I know what should be done now,’ she said with decision. ‘For the moment that will be sufficient.’ Her determination impressed him.

‘Very well. I’ll give you the address. Meanwhile, let me call for some tea.’

The carriage took her back past the railway station again, under the gloomy iron bridge, past a public house on a corner where men stood in a group, talking, spitting, waiting for something to happen, for a cart to pass that was shy a helper, for someone to come along who would stand a drink, for the sun to climb a bit higher, the day to grow a bit warmer.

‘Number 3 Chandlers Court,’ she said again to the driver, raising the leather flap to project her voice to where he was sitting.