Strumpet City (39 page)

To address metaphors of wheat and honey to unfortunates who were spending most of their time on strike seemed inappropriate. Father O’Connor, however, had found no such difficulty. During the ten o’clock mass his voice had penetrated to Father Giffley through the partly open door of the vestry. He told his listening congregation that however much they might lack for material comforts in comparison with the more well-to-do, as Catholics they had access to a daily Banquet which was nothing less than the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ Himself. Here was a spiritual food, necessary to salvation, which was the daily right of the poorest Catholic in the world, but forbidden to the non-Catholic, however rich in worldly goods he might be. Here truly, said Father O’Connor, was no mere bodily fare, but the fat of wheat referred to in the Introit of the mass, here was the honey out of the rock. For these riches, the gift of the Father, let them join the psalmist in rejoicing to God our Helper on this great feast of the Body of Christ.

Father Giffley walked rigidly and angrily as the procession moved about the church grounds. Under the canopy, borne by four Confraternity men, Father O’Connor held the monstrance aloft, the chasuble draped about his shoulders and upheld hands. He had been celebrant at solemn benediction. Father Giffley, dressed only in surplice and soutane, assisted by holding his cope on the right-hand side; Father O’Sullivan assisting in the same manner on his left. Before them, walking backwards with occasional wary glances behind, a young altar boy offered incense from the Thurible. Three puffs of aromatic smoke rose at each incensing, accompanied by the threefold tap of the Thurible against its silver-coloured chain. Behind the priests walked the little children. Some with surplices or white veils, some even with bunches of cheap flowers sang ‘O Sacrament Most Holy, O Sacrament Divine’ and kept glancing about to locate their parents among the onlookers. Their voices reached out beyond the church grounds into the streets, which were hot and stuffy under the evening sunshine.

Where had the children got the flowers? Father Giffley wondered. Some had come from wasteland plots, for he himself had told them to gather the humble flowers that were free to all—the daisies, the buttercups, the wild, unnameable growths that for all he knew might be weeds. But some had the more cultivated kind. Father Giffley did not take much note of flowers. The wild kind that spread along grasslands and ditches were pleasant enough, but the gardens of the well-to-do he despised as so many useless acres of multi-coloured vegetation. Father O’Connor had suggested buying a supply of flowers to distribute to the first few ranks of processionists.

‘It is merely a suggestion,’ Father O’Connor had said.

‘We should distribute onions and turnips and cabbages to them to carry,’ Father Giffley said, ‘then we might have some right to admonish them to rejoice to God their Helper.’

Father O’Sullivan, who heard the exchange, left the room, remembering that he must make ready the surplices and veils which Father Giffley kept for distribution among the children, most of whom were too poor to supply their own. Father O’Connor had made no reply.

Anger accompanied Father Giffley through the length of the journey, anger at the plight of the children, anger at his own powerlessness, anger, most of all, at the pale face of Father O’Connor the celebrant, whose cope he held in apparent priestly brotherhood. This man was content (Father Giffley reflected) in the thought that the fat of wheat and the honey out of the rock were safely stored in the strongrooms of his middle-class friends, to be distributed to the destitute in small doses from time to time. Under the auspices of the good ladies of Kingstown, no doubt. The time had come when these outcasts were demanding something more than figurative nourishment. Walking in the sunshine, with the voices of the children in his ears, the Thurible tapping its three-beat praise in front of him, the cope of his hated curate held ceremoniously outward by his hand, Father Giffley, without any feelings of pity, but with an anger that was not altogether sane, wished them well. If they could succeed in toppling the society this insensitive young fool believed in, he would listen with joy to the crashing and the pandemonium.

Some distance away, out of earshot of the children’s singing, Rashers leaned on the parapet of the bridge. The iron was hot and comforting under his elbows. When he looked down the water of the basin showed him the bridge with his own image planted in the centre. To his left, rising out of the water, was the grey stone wall of Boland’s granary, with great open doors where ships had been unloading some time earlier in the afternoon. Inside he could see the sacks of grain piled one on the other. Weeds grew at intervals from ancient cracks in the wall and these, too, were reflected in the water, profuse, colourful, without movement in the June evening. A pigeon which had discovered a hole in one of the grain bags at the bottom of the pile was pecking patiently at it to make it bigger, so that the grain would spill out. Rashers had seen them at it often; it was a trick that was part of the granary pigeon’s inheritance. Pigeons had it easy, Rashers reflected, as the bridge trembled under the wheels of the traffic and dislodged dust made tiny whirlpools in the water beneath it.

When he looked down the street, Rashers could see the front of the bakery, a greystone building with lines of windows, granary floors, hoists and platforms. Somewhere near the top the pigeons had their nests. They came and went as he watched. They were sleek and fat with glossy coats. They exercised above the roof and watched the comings and goings of carts. In the wake of each load grain littered the cobbles and the pigeons flew down to search. The grain in the evening sunlight was golden, the green and purple feathers about the necks of the birds had a healthy sheen.

Rashers was hungry. The warm odour of the bakery set up an aching in his mouth and his belly. Mrs. Bartley, if he asked her, would give him a cup of tea and a slice of bread when he got home, but his hunger was for more than that. He watched the pigeon still at work on the sack and thought of crisp, freshly baked loaves. It seemed a long way back to Chandlers Court. All day he had worked moving rubble from the garden of a woman in Sandymount, in the hope that she would offer him an evening meal as part of his payment. But when he finished she had left to attend benediction for the feast, leaving word that he should call back for his money tomorrow. Now the dog would be waiting for him and he would have nothing to give it. It was well for the pigeons flying high above the streets, mating, resting, pilfering grain. Tonight Rusty could be let out to root in the bins, with the chance of picking up God knows what class of poison. He himself could impose on Mrs. Bartley, a thing that troubled him, for she had not much more than himself. He stared at his own reflection, trying to think of an alternative.

The pigeon at the sack had been joined by three others. They knew what was afoot and stood waiting for the hole to grow and the grain to spill. They were patient. It was part of their way of existence and had happened many times before.

Father Giffley, when the procession was over, called the clerk from the vestry to his study so that Father O’Connor had to disrobe without the assistance which was his due as celebrant. Father O’Sullivan collected the veils and surplices from the children and put them away in the wickerwork hamper. Father O’Connor knelt for some time in private prayer in the vestry, which smelled of incense and flowers. The odours and the hush were pleasant at first. Later they made him lonely, so that he longed for companionship. But he continued to pray, in thanksgiving to God for the gift of priesthood, the power of his hands to change bread and wine into the Body and Blood of the Lord. There was a moment when his realisation of the mystery of it raised his thoughts into ecstasy. He continued to pray until all was as usual again and the vestry and the flowers and the lingering incense existed once more about him.

Very quiet and still, Rashers thought the evening was. For the moment the pigeon had given over his work at the sack and stood with the other three, as though in consultation. Bob Fitzpatrick, crossing the bridge on his way home, waved a greeting. His face was black from the furnaces. Easy knowing the wife and the children were away. He would have washed his face before leaving the job if they were at home. A man who knew Rashers slightly stopped to stand beside him and together they watched as the pigeon resumed its work.

‘I’ve seen them at that a hundred times,’ the man commented.

‘You’d wonder at it,’ Rashers said, ‘you wouldn’t think a pigeon would have the brains.’

‘More brains than many a Christian,’ said the man, ‘like the rat.’

‘The rat is sagacious.’

‘Highly sagacious. I believe the crowd in the College of Surgeons would rather have a rat to experiment on than a guinea-pig. More like the human.’

‘I can believe that,’ Rashers said. ‘Some humans is remarkably like the rat.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ the man agreed.

They considered the pigeon’s activity for a while longer.

‘Did you back anything in the Derby?’ the man asked.

‘I gave that up a long time ago,’ Rashers said.

‘You’re wise. I had two bob on Sweeper myself and he’s still running. Are you stepping up the road?’

‘No,’ Rashers said, ‘I may as well rest here a while longer.’

He wanted to see the result of the pigeon’s labour. There was nothing better to do. The man lingered a while longer out of politeness, then he went off.

Father O’Sullivan noted in the
Irish Catholic
that a new publication had been issued from the office of the Messenger of the Sacred Heart. He went off to consult Father Giffley about it, finding him in his study.

‘What is the title of this latest evidence of religious fervour?’ he was asked. Father O’Sullivan, reading from the paper said:

‘The Litany of the Sacred Heart, with commentary and meditations.’

‘By whom?’

‘By Father Joseph McDonnell, S.J.’

‘Ah—an S.J. Don’t you think it might be a bit on the intellectual side for St. Brigid’s?’

Father O’Sullivan smiled, knowing that he was not being asked a question.

‘I would like a few copies for the church pamphlet box.’

‘And why not,’ Father Giffley said. He closed his eyes and spoke aloud the verses of the Litany that came to his mind. ‘Heart of Jesus, filled with reproaches: Heart of Jesus, bruised for our crimes: Heart of Jesus, made obedient unto death.’

He stopped and gestured to a chair.

‘Sit down, John.’

Father O’Sullivan took the chair. He was always at ease in his parish priest’s presence, even when Father Giffley used him as the butt of his humour.

‘I want to tell you that I am going mad, John. Will you join me in a glass?’

‘Not now, thank you,’ Father O’Sullivan said. He looked to one side, not to evade, but to hide the sadness which he knew might show itself.

‘Why don’t you look at me, John?’

‘I took back the veils and the surplices from the children tonight,’ Father O’Sullivan said gently. ‘All the surplices were returned, but two of the veils were not.’

‘The boys’ surplices are always fully accounted for, aren’t they?’ Father Giffley said. ‘The veils are more uncertain. The little girls steal them. They woo men as they woo God—with raiment. I am not disturbed. Buy two more.’

Father O’Sullivan watched as the other rose and took whiskey from a cabinet. He saw him pour a measure and then add a little water from the jug on the table. As he did so, Father Giffley said:

‘Heart of Jesus, desire of the everlasting hills

Heart of Jesus, patient and full of mercy.’

He drank. He regarded Father O’Sullivan over his glass with amused affection. ‘You have no pamphlet of your own published yet?’

‘When I finish them they are never good enough.’

‘Will you be here during the evening, John?’

‘All of it.’

‘Then go and bring me your last effort and I’ll read it and send for you and we’ll discuss it. I’ll give you a frank opinion.’

Father O’Sullivan was surprised. Father Giffley had never offered to read anything of his before. Pleased, he went to his room and returned with the neatly written pages, to find Father Giffley pouring himself another glass. His mood had changed. He was staring through the window at the bunting which decorated the path about the church which the Corpus Christi procession had followed.

‘Leave it with me,’ he said. Father O’Sullivan placed the manuscript on the table beside him and withdrew.

Fitz washed when he got home, made tea for himself, then attended a meeting of his section that had been called to organise support for a strike in one of the timber yards. Mulhall took the chair, while Joe sat beside him on the platform making notes. It was becoming a routine now: the resolution of support, the decision not to pass pickets and not to handle goods moved from the yard by non-union labour. There were three further resolutions of sympathy and pledges of support for comrades on strike in England. Then they retired to Tobin’s of Townsend Street, because Pat had backed the winner of the Derby and offered to treat them.

‘Tagalie,’ Pat said, when they were sitting with pints of porter in front of them, ‘it was a certainty.’

‘The only filly in the race,’ Joe pointed out.

‘What price?’ asked Mulhall.

‘One hundred to eight,’ Fitz supplied. He had read the results on the job:

1. Tagalie 100-8

2. Jaegar 8-l

3. Tracery 66-1

Sweeper, an American horse, had been favourite at two to one.

‘You had courage, anyway,’ Mulhall said, ‘backing the filly.’

‘He has a weakness for fillies,’ Joe commented.

‘The jockey was J. Rieff,’ Pat challenged, ‘and I wonder if the name conveys anything to any of you?’

They thought about it but eventually had to admit that they could find no particular significance in it.

‘What was the winner of the 1907 Derby?’ Pat asked.