Strumpet City (38 page)

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve met many women in my time—and the least said now the better. But there was one in London—I mentioned this before.’

‘I remember,’ Father O’Connor said. ‘You met her at the first performance of
The Yeoman of the Guard.’

Yearling smiled. It was Father O’Connor’s tone, meticulously interested. It was his face, so young, gravely composed, moulded to convey sympathy. He remembered clearly and wanted to tell about it, realising that indeed there was nothing to tell.

‘Yes. Or rather afterwards, while at supper with some friends.’

Father O’Connor nodded, waiting.

Now—what was there to say. That she was beautiful? That she had golden hair? There were millions with golden hair. That she turned to him frequently during the meal, smiling, sympathetic, favouring him? He could remember the face so well, bending towards him in the light of the table lamps, the clear eyes and delicately toned skin. And her first question: ‘You are Irish—aren’t you?’ put flatteringly, as though to be Irish was to be special and exclusive. That had been in October 1888, and yet he could remember vividly, with a sensation that was like the throbbing of an old wound.

‘For some months we went about together. We got on like a house on fire, except on the subject of drink. She had a set against drink, I think because her father had been an alcoholic, and we used to argue about that. Or, rather, we used to talk about it—the English are too polite to argue. To tell you the truth, I was always pretty expert at hitting the bottle, and I never tried to hide it from her. She cared enough for me to try like the devil to be tolerant about it, but it was no use. Drink frightened her—she couldn’t help it. We had good fun, just the same. We went three or four times to the
Yeoman
, we liked it so much, and when we were together we sang it for one another. We did rather more serious things too, of course—but I won’t distress you with the details. Then, on the evening I was leaving, quite suddenly she told me she was engaged—some chap on foreign service. She hadn’t mentioned this before and it was quite a shock. I asked her to break it off and marry me and she said she’d let me know. I was sure she would, because she wept a lot. She even pleaded with me to stay on longer while she thought about it, but that was impossible. Anyway, I got a letter some weeks later to say she was going to marry this other chap after all. And that was the end of it.’ Yearling smiled. ‘I wonder why I should tell you such a remote little piece of autobiography.’

‘I am honoured,’ Father O’Connor said with sincerity. Then, groping to phrase the question delicately, he asked:

‘Would it have been so difficult, to meet her wishes—to give up . . . ?’

‘I had an instinct about that,’ Yearling said, ‘and the years have proved me right. For me, memories and alcohol are necessary defences. This is a dunghill of a world.’

It was a surprising sentiment from Yearling, who so seldom betrayed pessimism.

‘Perhaps if you had married this girl,’ Father O’Connor suggested gently, ‘the defences would be unnecessary. You would have had her companionship.’

‘There is no such thing as companionship,’ Yearling said, ‘when it comes to coping with the melancholy intimations of Anno Domini.’

His voice had the familiar note of self-mockery, and, as he spoke, he put his arm companionably about Father O’Connor’s shoulder. As they turned to re-enter the room the waiter approached.

‘Father O’Connor?’ he enquired.

Father O’Connor nodded.

‘A telephone call.’ The waiter led the way.

It was Bradshaw. He was very agitated. There was uproar in the streets about the theatre, he said, and it would be quite impossible to risk travelling to the Imperial. The cabman had advised strongly against it. They would have to be excused.

‘Of course,’ Father O’Connor said. ‘I hope Mrs. Bradshaw is not too upset.’

‘Please explain to Yearling.’

‘He is here beside me.’

Father O’Connor handed the earpiece to Yearling, who shouted: ‘You missed a grandstand seat.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘At the riots.’

‘I am entirely surrounded by rioters,’ Bradshaw shouted back, ‘blackguards and hooligans who are looting and destroying. I daren’t risk bringing Mrs. Bradshaw across.’

‘Of course not,’ Yearling agreed.

‘Where are the military?—that’s what I’d like to ask Asquith,’ Bradshaw added. He sounded outraged, as though it had all been arranged for his sole inconvenience. Then he repeated that he was sorry to disappoint them.

‘Don’t worry about that. We had quite a pleasant evening. Do you remember the horse tram?’

‘The what?’

‘The horse tram. Do you remember the time I stole the horse tram. You refused to come with me.’

‘I am not interested in damned horse trams at the moment. I am entirely occupied with the problem of getting Florence and myself home in safety.’

‘Sorry,’ Yearling explained. ‘I’ve been thinking about it on and off all evening. Well—safe journey.’

‘And to you. Wish the same to Father O’Connor.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Yearling assured him.

Bradshaw rang off. His wife, who had heard only one side of the conversation was curious.

‘What did he say?’ she asked.

‘I think it typical of Yearling,’ Bradshaw complained. ‘I tell him the city is in the throes of a revolution and he asks me if I remember the time he stole a horse tram.’

‘What horse tram?’ Mrs. Bradshaw asked. Bradshaw went purple.

‘Damn it, Florence,’ he exploded, ‘you are every bit as bad as he is.’

Pat found himself after an unreckonable time at the door of Lily’s house. At first the rioting stopped him from crossing to the south side of the city. He wandered northwards instead, dazed and without any particular goal. His horse and cart had disappeared altogether, the blood had caked hard on his collar. At some point he took off his scarf and wound it tightly about his head, hoping in that way to stop the flow of blood. He was weak, his wound throbbed, but for most of his journey he felt light and happy. The streets he passed gave him the idea that he was calling on Lily to take her somewhere, to a music-hall, or to the Park—he could not quite remember where. He would apologise for the blood and dirt on his clothes. She would understand. Lily nearly always understood. Yet when he reached her door he stood for a long time, undecided whether he should knock or go away again. The feeling of lightness and happiness left him. There was something wrong. She was not expecting him. He was not dressed to take her out. He had forgotten his money. He should be back at Nolan & Keyes, to unyoke and stable his horse, to collect and sort his delivery dockets for the next day. He leaned his back against the door and began to think it out.

The street was dark and untrafficked, the air soothing and warm. A cat, methodically investigating the line of refuse bins, took a long time to approach and pass him. It moved with great stealth, a furry silence, strangely soothing to watch. When it had gone he made up his mind and knocked on the door.

At first Lily thought he had been drinking. She warned him to be quiet and led him into the parlour.

‘Give me a match,’ she said.

She lit the gas and turned to take stock of him.

‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘you’re destroyed!’

At her words his hands went automatically to the scarf on his head.

‘You’ve been in a fight. Was it a policeman?’

‘Not a policeman, Lily. It happened down the city.’ He looked around.

She took his arm and said: ‘Sit here—you look terrible.’

He began to tell her what had happened. The throbbing made it difficult. She undid the scarf as he spoke and gently lifted the matted hair away from the wound. It was long and jagged. Blood oozed very slowly from it.

‘Come down to the kitchen, I’ll wash and dress it for you.’

‘Where’s the household?’

‘The landlady is in bed. I’ll have to tell her you’re here.’

‘Give me ten minutes. Then I’ll go.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Lily said, ‘you can’t go travelling home with that.’

She cleaned the wound and washed the blood from his neck. For the hundredth time he noted how small and delicate her hands were. They were the hands he had always loved. They soothed more than the mere physical pain. Because they were Lily’s hands he closed his eyes, the hurt that had nothing to do with bottles and broken flesh dying away under their compassionate movements.

‘I’m only getting you into trouble,’ he said.

‘I’ll go up and explain to her. She can’t turn you out the way you are. Wait here.’

Lily was gone a long time. When she came back she had a couple of blankets on her arm. She led him into the parlour again.

‘She says you can sleep here.’

Lily arranged the blankets about him and settled cushions under his head.

‘Now I’ll make tea.’

‘Lily . . .’ he began.

‘Don’t stir.’ She went back down to the kitchen.

He found a cigarette and lit it. Lying on the carpeted floor did not bother him. He had slept on harder beds. The room was heavily furnished. There was a picture of Queen Victoria on one wall and photographs of uniformed groups. Souvenirs and trophies in the china cabinet recorded domestic comings and goings that had finished with the Boer War.

He sat up when Lily brought him tea and bread and butter. In an effort to conceal how he felt he asked. ‘How do you stick that oul wan?’

Lily, thinking he meant the landlady, said sharply: ‘I like that. She’s been good enough to let you stay.’

‘I mean her nibs,’ Pat said, indicating Queen Victoria.

Lily dismissed the picture with a shrug.

‘That oul wan let Ireland starve,’ Pat insisted.

‘She’s dead and Ireland is still starving,’ Lily said, ‘so I don’t see that you can put all the blame on Her Majesty.’

‘Ireland will be free one day. Royalty will go and the employers will go.’

‘You should have explained all that to your comrades-in-arms that gave you the clatter with the bottle.’

He gave up pretending.

‘God, Lily,’ he said, ‘I feel awful.’

‘Then lie back,’ she advised.

She took away the tea things and settled him comfortably.

‘I’ll take away your jacket and wash the collar.’

He took her hand and said: ‘Don’t go, Lily.’

She hesitated. Her face became sad. Then she disengaged her hand and touched his cheek.

‘I must,’ she told him gently, ‘you know I must.’ She put out the light and closed the door. Some time later he heard footsteps moving back and forth on the floor above his head. He knew it was Lily going to bed. He listened until at last they ceased. Then he lay thinking about her. It was hard to sleep, knowing her to be so near. It was hard not to rise and go searching in the darkness. His love for her had been like that for a long time, a lonely desire searching vainly for a room. When he closed his eyes the air became heavy and hard to breathe. He dreamed fitfully, knocking on door after door in search of Lily. Each in turn was opened by Queen Victoria.

‘This will do me,’ Father O’Connor said.

The cab stopped and he got out.

‘Sleep well,’ Yearling said, lowering the window.

‘Thank you for a most hospitable evening.’

‘A great pleasure,’ Yearling assured him and waved benevolently as the cab jolted forward again.

The night was mild and starless. In front of Father O’Connor the railings of the church were faintly visible and behind them the bulk of the church rose darkly. It had been a distressing journey through streets that looked as though they had been hit by a hurricane. Shop windows had gaping holes, lamp-posts were shattered and bent, the wheels crunched over scattered glass and skidded against bricks and debris. In Father O’Connor’s memory nothing like it had happened before. Yearling had refused to agree that it was the handiwork of the strikers. If not, then it was an indirect effect. The lowest elements of the city were prepared now to engage the police, challenging the law and social order in pitched battles. It was a sign that revolt had percolated to the degraded depths of slumland. Here was proof, if indeed proof were needed, of the evil fruits one must be prepared to expect. The challenge to God and religion would not be long delayed.

Opening the hall door he let himself in quietly and turned up the gas light. He put his hat on the hallstand and arranged his umbrella, taking care that it would not fall during the night, as Father Giffley’s so often did. As he turned the hall door opened and Father O’Sullivan stepped in. With a shock he saw that there was blood on his face and his hands and on the white band of his collar.

‘Father,’ he said, ‘you are hurt.’

‘Hush,’ Father O’Sullivan said, ‘don’t waken Father Giffley.’

Father O’Connor lowered his voice.

‘You were caught in the riots?’

‘Not at all,’ Father O’Sullivan said. ‘I’ve been out seeing what I could do. There were some who were badly hurt. A little soap and water will clean it all away.’ When Father O’Connor continued to look doubtful, he became concerned and said apologetically.

‘I assure you, Father, that I haven’t a scratch. Please don’t worry.’

He went past and down the hall. The shoulders of his coat were stained and there was dust on its skirt. Father O’Connor stared after him. He stood in the hallway for some minutes after Father O’Sullivan had gone. It was very quiet and he could hear the buzzing of the gas mantle. His face, reflected in the mirror of the hallstand, was suddenly haggard, his jaw tense with pain.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

On Thursday, sixth of June 1912, Feast of Corpus Christi, white being the liturgical colour, Father Giffley took the eight o’clock mass. That evening, during the procession of the Blessed Sacrament, the Introit kept recurring to him. It had been his intention to speak briefly on it at mass, but at the last moment he had changed his mind. He could not bring himself to say:

‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.

‘He fed them on the fat of wheat, alleluia; and filled them with honey out of the rock!’