Strumpet City (56 page)

Mulhall set his face.

‘I do, Father.’

‘You have first-hand experience of it, anyway,’ Father O’Sullivan agreed. Then he said:

‘But do you think you’re a better person than they are?’

‘No,’ Mulhall said, ‘that’s another matter entirely.’

‘In that case,’ Father O’Sullivan said, ‘I wouldn’t worry unduly about a difference of opinion with them.’

‘I’m glad you say that, Father.’

‘The only danger I see in it is that it might lead you into hatred. Differences of opinion often do. First bitterness—then hate. That’s the fellow I’d watch—Hate. That would be very sinful.’

‘I see, Father,’ Mulhall said. He was listening carefully.

‘No matter what a man—or a priest for that matter—says or does, you can oppose him certainly, but you must love him all the same.’

‘It’s asking a lot,’ Mulhall said doubtfully.

‘Don’t I know it is,’ Father O’Sullivan agreed. ‘And in times like this particularly. But there’s no way out of it.’

‘I know,’ Mulhall said. It was the truth. Neither priest nor bishop had invented that one. It had come from Higher-up.

‘That’s the one I’d watch,’ Father O’Sullivan concluded.

Mulhall frowned.

‘Ah well,’ he said, ‘so long as we’re not expected to give in to them.’

Father O’Sullivan carefully gathered the tea things on to the tray.

‘I’ll leave these with herself,’ he said, taking his leave.

It was easy enough to give counsel, he told himself when he was again in the street, but an ounce of example was worth a ton of advice. Clothe the naked, feed the hungry, visit the sick. Well, he had done the last. But what of the first two. Father O’Connor had argued that charity only made things worse by prolonging the struggle without doing very much to relieve the suffering. The work was there for them; they were idle—destitute through their own choice. That was too glib and pragmatical. You had only to visit the tenements.

His feet hurt, his boots still creaked. He was limping noticeably. A cab driver drew in alongside him and hailed him.

‘Are you going back to St. Brigid’s, Father?’

‘I am,’ Father O’Sullivan said.

‘Then hop in. I’m on my way back to the rank.’

‘God bless you. Isn’t it Tom Mangan I’m talking to?’

‘That’s right, Father.’

He got into the cab. It was a relief to be driven. It was also something of a novelty. He was not a man to spend money on cab fares. He had visited Mangan’s wife about a month before, a sick call. The cab passed the rank and stopped at St. Brigid’s. Mangan was going out of his way.

‘You shouldn’t have done that, Tom, the rank would have done fine,’ he said when Mangan opened the door for him.

‘A few yards—what’s that,’ Mangan said. ‘Besides, your call brought us great luck altogether.’

‘Is she coming on?’

‘Famous,’ Mangan said. ‘I mentioned your visit to a regular passenger of mine, a doctor, and he said he’d come along and have a look at her. He’s been calling twice a week since and whatever it is he gives her she hasn’t had pain or ache since. He says she’ll be fit to get up and about in a week or so. And it won’t cost me a ha’penny.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it.’

‘You might know him, Father. He’s a head man in the Rotunda, Dr. Hayes.’

‘I don’t then,’ Father O’Sullivan said, ‘but he’s a good man to do that.’

‘There’s few like him,’ the cabman agreed.

Father O’Sullivan waved his gratitude as the cab went down the street. The thought of the doctor’s charity edified him. It was not, after all, a city of unrelieved bitterness or indifference. A man of learning regularly brought his skill to the bedside of a poor woman in the slums, and did so out of pity alone. He creaked his way towards the house. Father Giffley met him at the hall door.

‘I see you came home in style, John,’ he said. The tone was humorous.

‘I did. A good Samaritan offered me the lift.’

Father O’Sullivan groaned without meaning to. ‘I’ll have to take off the boots for a while. They’re killing me.’

He creaked his way through the hall. Father Giffley laughed. It was sympathetic at first but it grew too loud. He stood still in the hall, frightened for himself, as its echo died away.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

All day the high wind from the sea raked the streets of Kingstown. It slackened in the late afternoon, but as dusk came it began to freshen again. After dinner, while Father O’Connor played the piano for them and Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw listened attentively, Yearling noticed that the oil lamp beside him was flickering from time to time. Taking care not to disturb his guests he searched quietly with his eyes for the source of the draught. The heavy curtains of the windows were stirring slightly. He sighed. All that was left to him of yet another of his diminishing store of summers was a warped window pane. He would have it seen to. In common with the rest of Kingstown he must take stock and prepare for the rigours of winter. He disliked doing that. It was always sad to bury a season.

The music was hypnotic but not inspiring. Ralph Bradshaw, he suspected, was in a torpor; Mrs. Bradshaw less so. He secretly appraised the comfort of the room. Soon he would have to surrender to fashion and science by abandoning his beloved paraffin lamps. He admired their soft light, the patterns of their beaded shades on floor and walls, their luminiferous elegance. But Progress had outmoded them. Soon they must go.

A gust of wind carried the sound of an ambulance bell into the room. It lifted to a peak, compelling their momentary attention, then the wind bore it away again and they returned to the music, the Bradshaws automatically, Yearling with an effort of will and only nominally.

He was so restless. His trip to London had been no help at all, except for the relief of stepping off the mailboat again at Kingstown Harbour. Should he have married? Not as things had happened. Now youth had gone; manhood almost. And the old order he had been expensively brought up in was being bitterly assailed. It too would go. In London a great meeting of locked-out dockers had gathered about the platform of Ben Tillett and chanted over and over again in thunderous chorus: ‘O God, strike Lord Davenport dead.’ In Dublin Larkin flung his terrible phrase at the employers. ‘You’ll crucify Christ no longer in this town.’ The streets were shaking with the sound of his voice, the burden bearers were straightening their backs. They were multitude. There would be no escape from them. In Moore Street he had watched the ragged urchins crawling beneath the barrows of the vendors in search of rotten fruit.

The music ended. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw said it was very nice. Father O’Connor apologised for the inadequacy of his technique. The music of Mozart was always more difficult than it looked. Yearling said the performance had been very accomplished and asked if anyone had noticed a draught. Mrs. Bradshaw and Father O’Connor assured him they had not. Bradshaw said he thought he had felt something.

‘I think the window-frame had become warped,’ Yearling said. ‘It seems to happen every summer.’

They both went over to examine it.

‘It’s the sun,’ Bradshaw pronounced. ‘I have the same problem myself. And there isn’t a competent carpenter in the country.’

‘The windows opening on the garden give constant trouble,’ Mrs. Bradshaw supplied.

‘That’s what I said,’ Bradshaw told her impatiently. With the shortening of the days he always went over them, carefully sealing them with sticky paper which never failed to become unstuck again after a couple of weeks.

Father O’Connor had vacated the piano stool.

‘Someone else,’ he suggested. His tone was dispirited. His own performance had disappointed him. Sensing this, Yearling became jocular and went to the piano.

‘There’s a new music-hall song in London,’ he announced, ‘which amused me. It goes like this.’

He was not a pianist but he could vamp a bass to a melody in the right hand. He did so now, discordantly at times but with infectious enjoyment, half turning to the company as he sang to them:

‘Joshua, gosh you are

Sweeter than lemon squash you are.’

His imitation of a music-hall artiste made even Bradshaw smile. The atmosphere became more alive. When he had finished they applauded and he said:

‘There were quite a few new songs. “Who were you with last night?” “Hold your hand out, you naughty boy.” “Hitchy Koo.” “It’s a long way to Tipperary.” I went a lot to music-hall.’

‘Can you remember any of the others?’ Mrs. Bradshaw prompted. But her husband, alarmed at some of the titles, cut in quickly.

‘What else did you do?’

‘I went to gape at some suffragettes who had chained themselves to railings. They’re burning empty houses now and setting fire to letter boxes.’

‘Disgraceful,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.

‘And everybody I met expects a civil war in Ireland.’

‘Because of the Home Rule Bill?’ Father O’Connor asked.

‘Carson,’ Bradshaw supplied grimly. ‘He won’t give up the North.’

‘Tory hostesses are refusing to entertain members of the Government,’ Yearling continued. ‘And in the House someone flung his copy of Standing Orders at Winston Churchill’s head.’

Another ambulance bell rang furiously outside, rising and fading as the wind caught it and carried it away. The conversation stopped.

‘That’s strange,’ Yearling said eventually. ‘I thought I heard one earlier—while Father O’Connor was playing.’

‘I heard it too,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.

‘Could it be a fire?’ Father O’Connor wondered.

‘I would hope not,’ Bradshaw said, ‘not in this wind.’

‘Perhaps we should look,’ Yearling suggested.

He and Bradshaw went to the hall door. They had to hold it against the wind as they opened it. Outside it was dark. Trees in the garden tossed wildly. They searched the sky. When they returned they could report nothing unusual.

‘I’ve been wondering if it could be a baton charge,’ Father O’Connor said.

‘In Kingstown?’ Mrs. Bradshaw exclaimed, horrified.

‘Kingstown has its blackguards too,’ her husband said, ‘make no mistake about it.’ He looked very grim. Father O’Connor agreed with him.

‘Violence is everywhere,’ he said, raising his hands a moment to deplore it.

‘As Father O’Connor has good reason to know,’ Bradshaw reminded the company.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said—reminded.

‘You are quite recovered?’ Yearling asked.

‘Quite recovered.’ Father O’Connor’s tone acknowledged their solicitude, begged them modestly not to be reminded.

‘We live in terrible times,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. The ambulance bells, the gusting wind, filled her with foreboding. Outside the cosy circle of lamplight lay all the uncertainty and hardship of the world.

‘I went shopping in town last week,’ she told them. ‘It was terrifying. There were little children everywhere and they were begging for pennies.’

Her husband regarded her sternly.

‘I hope you kept your purse closed,’ he said. She did not reply, but looked hopefully at Father O’Connor. He wore a sad look.

‘The children are hungry,’ Yearling said.

‘They are hungry because they are on strike,’ Bradshaw insisted.

‘The children are not on strike,’ Yearling challenged.

‘Their fathers are,’ Bradshaw said.

Yearling in turn looked enquiringly at Father O’Connor.

‘What has religion to say to that?’ he asked. He was smiling and conversational in manner, but his eyes were cold. Father O’Connor became uncomfortable.

‘We must all have compassion for those who are hungry,’ he said at last, ‘but this is not by any means a simple matter. It is the duty of the parents to feed their children. If through misfortune they are unable to do so, then it is our obligation in charity to help them. But in the present instance their hunger is not due to misfortune. It is the result of a deliberate decision not to work. If we help them we are doing at least two things that are unjust; we are encouraging them to defy their employers and we are prolonging a most distressing situation.’

Bradshaw looked approvingly at Father O’Connor and then turned to Yearling.

‘I think that answers you very adequately,’ he said.

‘There is a third objection, to my mind the most important.’

Father O’Connor continued. ‘If Larkin and his colleagues win their fight it will be a victory for socialism. And socialism, as a very eminent Jesuit has clearly shown, is the worst enemy of the working man. It uproots his confidence in hierarchical order. It preaches discontent. It makes him covetous of the property of his social superiors, and impatient with the trials and obligations of his own station in life. If it does not destroy altogether his belief in God’s Fatherhood, it certainly cuts him off from the graces and spiritual fruits which are the rewards of poverty cheerfully borne and which flow from humble resignation to God’s Will.’

Father O’Connor was now very grave and looked unhappy.

‘For these reasons,’ he concluded, speaking directly to Mrs. Bradshaw, ‘and I know how cold and even cruel it must all sound to a nature that is tender and maternal, we must harden our hearts.’

Her husband set his mouth and nodded approvingly. She lowered her eyes.

‘I see,’ Yearling said quietly.

He had read Father O’Connor’s arguments in newspaper reports and leaders on countless occasions since the lock-out had begun. He probably preached that way too. Now they had an extraordinary effect on him. He found his sympathy to be completely on Larkin’s side. The discovery filled him with good humour. In future he would help them whenever he could. He would not be the only one of his class to do so. George Bernard Shaw had spoken for them. George Russell, the mad mystic, had written a scathing letter against the employers. William Orpen, the painter, and several highly respectable intellectuals were denouncing William Martin Murphy and his policy of starvation.

He offered drinks to his guests and then said:

‘Now, Mrs. Bradshaw, ma’am—something from yourself first—and then both of us will oblige.’

She smiled and went to the piano. His ’cello lay in the corner with new music he had bought in London in readiness beside it. It included a selection from
Il Trovatore
, arranged for ’cello and piano, which he looked forward to trying with her. As though she had guessed his thought, she said: