Strumpet City (63 page)

‘God was good to me,’ she answered, ‘and I had the kindest of neighbours.’

He could now move nearer to the enquiry he wished to make.

‘One of your neighbours is Mrs. Fitzpatrick—isn’t she?’

‘The kindest and best of them.’

This made it more difficult. He deliberated.

‘You have a very high regard for her—I can see.’

‘With good reason, Father.’

‘Then if I tell you I’m here to help her and to persuade her against making a very grave mistake, you’ll assist me?’ The woman hesitated. He sensed her uneasiness. Conscious suddenly of his own isolation in this poverty-haunted parish, he set his will to the duty before him.

‘You must trust me,’ he urged.

‘I was never much hand at meddling in another’s affairs.’

‘Sometimes it becomes our duty,’ he told her, ‘I’m sure you’ll understand when I explain to you.’

She nodded. He took up the umbrella to lean forward on it and rediscovered its lack of a handle. That upset him. He pushed it aside.

‘You know that there is an attempt at the moment to send children to England. And you know, I am sure, that the Archbishop himself has written to deplore it. God knows what sort of homes these children will end up in; Protestant homes, for all we know—or homes of no religion at all. I am told that Mrs. Fitzpatrick intends to let her children go. And I want to persuade her to remember her Catholic duty.’

‘Who told you that, Father?’

‘I am not at liberty to say. But it is a person I place trust in. Have you any knowledge of it?’

‘I know it couldn’t be true, Father. I’m the closest to her in things of that kind, and I’ve watched the children for her many a time. If the thought had ever entered her head, I’d know it.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘She’s out walking with her children, a thing she always does when the afternoon is fine.’

‘Did she ever speak to you of sending her children away?’

‘She did, several weeks ago. But it was to her father in the country she was thinking of sending them.’

‘I see,’ Father O’Connor said. The woman was very sure of herself. He knew she was telling what she believed was the truth.

‘Did she say this to anyone else?’

‘She may have, Father, but not to my knowledge.’ A thought occurred to him which he knew he must express delicately. He found it hard to spare the time to do so. The children might at that moment be on their way.

‘Times have been so very hard with all of you,’ he suggested. ‘Could it be that she intended to send them to her parents if the necessity arose, but found when the time came that she could no longer afford to do so?’

The woman hesitated again. It took her some time to answer.

‘It could have happened that way,’ she said at last. She appeared upset. He felt he was near the truth.

‘In that case, she might well have been tempted to take part in this Larkinite scheme instead.’

The woman began to cry.

‘Please don’t be upset,’ he said. ‘I have to say such things because of what is at stake. Do you know if she had money to send them to her parents?’

‘She had indeed, Father . . . but she gave it to me.’

The woman was weeping bitterly now. Suspicion of the cause made him rise and go to her. She was not telling him all she knew.

‘Are you holding something back?’ he asked. ‘If so, I command you as your priest to let me know the truth. Is she taking part in the scheme?’

‘No, Father, I’m certain of it.’

‘We cannot be certain.’

‘She’d have told me.’

‘She might not. Why did she give you the money?’

He was now standing over Mrs. Mulhall. Suspicion and anxiety had swamped his pity. She turned her head away from him.

‘When my husband died I had no money in the world. She gave me hers.’

‘Why?’

The woman struggled to answer. He repeated himself.

‘Why?’

‘So that I could bury him with decency,’ she said.

The reply took him by surprise. He understood now why his questions had upset her. But the fact remained that he could still not be sure that the scheme was not the desperate alternative.

‘What she did was edifying and Christian,’ he said, ‘but if it has led her to such despair that she has allowed her children to be taken away from her, then it would have been better for all of us if she had kept her money.’

The woman’s sobbing became uncontrollable. He took the broken umbrella under his arm.

‘Forgive me for the upset I have caused you,’ he said. He went to the door. What he had said struck him as bald and unpitying. He had not meant it that way.

‘Please don’t feel I am too harsh,’ he added. ‘The fate of these little children is an urgent and terrible charge on all of us.’

He closed the door and strode across the landing to knock once again at the Fitzpatrick’s apartment. There was still no answer. Enough time had been lost already. He went down quickly into the street.

Merchandise cluttered the South Wall of the river. At the berth of the one shipping company which had remained open by refusing to join the Employers’ Federation a single ship was working. To the right and left of it idle ships waited through flood tide and ebb tide. Larkin had said they would be left there until the bottoms were rusted out of them. Across the river, about the Embarkation sheds of the North Wall, crowds had gathered. Father O’Connor made for Butt Bridge. There were crowds at Liberty Hall also, he noticed. If there was to be a battle for the children, his help would be even more important. No room for shirkers now.

He reached the demonstrators excited and out of breath. Their numbers reassured him, their banners roused his admiration. He sought out the priest who was obviously in command.

‘Good evening, Father,’ he said. ‘I’m Father O’Connor of St. Brigid’s.’

‘A parish in which there has been a lot of activity,’ the other said. ‘Your assistance will be most welcome to us.’ They shook hands.

‘How can I help?’

‘By keeping your eyes open. You may recognise some of the parish children. Or their parents may be known to you. Your presence in itself will be an invaluable addition.’

‘What can I do?’

‘I’d like a priest with each lay contingent. It reassures them. You could take charge of the group over there. Come and I’ll introduce you.’

They went over together to some twenty men, members of a Branch of the Ancient Order of Hibernians. He was asked to assist them by scrutinising any children who might arrive as passengers. There was little conversation. After a polite exchange the leader turned to the others and said:

‘Now, men—a hymn while we’re waiting. Let’s have “Faith of our Fathers”. All together—One . . . two . . . three.’ They assumed grave expressions and lifted their voices in unison.

‘Faith of our Fathers living still

In spite of dungeon, fire and sword

Oh, how our hearts beat high with joy

When e’er we hear that glorious word

Faith of our Fathers, holy faith,

We will be true to thee till death

We will be true to thee till death.’

The gulls rose in alarm from roofs and the rigging of ships, and the other groups, as the voices rebounded off corrugated iron sheds and the walls of warehouses, took fire and joined in, swelling the sound of the second verse.

‘Faith of our Fathers, guile and force

To do thee bitter wrong unite,

But Erin’s saints shall fight for us

And keep undimmed thy blessed light

Faith of our Fathers, holy faith

We will be true to thee till death

We will be true to thee till death.’

The hooter of the one ship that was working across the river at the South Wall gave a long wail which swamped the voices and for a moment shattered all tonality. Its echo ran the length of the river, a groan of anguish which surged past Ringsend and the empty marshalling yards, spreading between the strands of Dollymount and the Shellybanks and Merrion, until it passed the estuary and became a ghost above the lonely lightships far out in the Irish Sea. Father O’Connor, unused to the procedures of the riverside, felt the sudden anger that mounted in the groups about him and wondered if it had been blown derisively.

There was the usual queue at the soup kitchen. Yearling spared the waiting women a glance, noting the jamjars and bottles and tin cans in their hands, then followed Mathews through the door of Liberty Hall and up the stairs to the second floor. It was dirty. The mud of countless feet had dried on the wooden stairway and on the landing. It smelled of people. Poverty, he had noticed before, had its own peculiar smell. A man’s station could be judged by what the body exhaled. Expensive odours of brandy and cigars; sour odours of those who nourished nature with condensed milk and tea. In an outer room were two men he recognised. One Orpen the painter, whom he knew well; the other Sinclair, an art dealer, who was said to love the fine things in his shop so much that he was constantly refusing to sell them.

Mathews excused himself and went into the inner office. Yearling approached Orpen.

‘My dear Orpen, what are you doing here?’

‘Some sketches,’ Orpen said. ‘Have you been to the food kitchens?’

‘No,’ Yearling confessed, ‘this is my first visit.’

‘Then let me show you these.’

Yearling examined cartoons of faces and figures. They wore skull-like heads and raised skeleton arms towards a woman who was ladling out soup.

‘How do you find them?’ Orpen asked.

‘Depressing.’

‘You should see the reality.’

‘Do you come here a lot?’

‘Every other day. One meets everybody here.’

‘So I gather,’ Yearling agreed. ‘I read a suggestion in
The Leader
that there should be a branch for intellectuals in Liberty Hall.’

‘Larkin is working night and day,’ Orpen said. ‘He expects to be summoned before the court any day now to answer a charge of sedition. They’re bound to convict him.’

Mathews returned to the room and joined them.

‘The children are on the next floor. Will you come up?’ Yearling followed him. The air was pungent with the smell from the cauldrons in the basement. They entered a room where about twenty children were being prepared for their journey. Some women were helping them to food. There were two men among them whom Mathews consulted.

‘There are pickets on the North Wall,’ he said, ‘there isn’t a hope of getting through if they are determined about stopping us. We’ve got to distract their attention by sending some of the children to Kingsbridge Station. The plan is to give them time to follow. Then we rush the rest of the children to the North Wall and try to get them aboard while the way is clear.’

‘I don’t think it will work,’ one of the men said, ‘there are thousands of them.’

‘Are you willing to try?’ Mathews asked.

‘Of course,’ the man answered.

‘So am I,’ Mathews told him. He looked at his watch.

‘If you will take the decoy party now,’ he suggested, ‘I’ll go with the others in an hour’s time. Later on your group can go by train from Amiens Street to Belfast and we’ll ship them out that way.’

‘You’ll need help,’ the man said. ‘Skeffington here could go along with you. The trouble is he’s a pacifist and not much good in a fight. He just stands still and lets them hammer him.’

Skeffington smiled.

‘Perhaps your friend . . . ?’ the man suggested.

‘Strictly a non-combatant,’ Mathews said.

They all looked at Yearling.

‘Not now,’ Yearling said. ‘I’ll go with you, Mathews.’

‘Good for you,’ Mathews said.

The children who were to act as a decoy were got ready. Yearling recognised one of them, a little girl. He went over and crouched to talk to her.

‘And how is Mary Murphy?’ he asked. ‘And is she still washing her clothes? And did she marry her sweetheart after all?’

The child became shy.

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Tell me another of your songs,’ he said.

‘What one?’

‘Any one,’ he invited. The child considered. Then she said:

‘“Applejelly lemon a pear”?’

‘That’ll be very nice.’

She drew a deep breath.

‘Applejelly lemon a pear

Gold and silver she shall wear

Gold and silver by her side

Take Mary Kelly for their bride

Take her across the lilywhite sea

Then over the water

Give her a kiss and a one, two or three

Then she’s the lady’s daughter.’

‘That’s nice,’ Yearling said when she had finished. ‘I like the lilywhite sea bit, don’t you?’

The child smiled at him. He went across to Mathews.

‘I know that little girl there. Could she come with our party?’

‘She
is
coming with our party.’

‘Good.’

He returned to the child.

‘Applejelly lemon a pear,’ he repeated. ‘I must learn that one. Tell it to me again.’

He went over and over it with the child, until the decoy contingent set off and they moved over to the windows to watch. The group of men about the doorway parted. The contingent passed through. From the height of the third floor they looked very small and vulnerable. The people who passed by were indifferent. Soon they were lost to his view. Some twenty minutes later the jeering of the men at the door brought him to the window again. Several cabs were passing in procession. The familiar banners were being held through their windows and the horses were moving at a smart pace. Their route was towards Kingsbridge Station. The plan was working.