Strumpet City (65 page)

I know that I can count upon your cordial co-operation. I ought perhaps to add that if there is any local reason why next Sunday may not be a convenient day, the collection can be held on the following Sunday. But you will kindly bear in mind that the case is one of real urgency.

I remain,

Very Rev. and Dear Father,

Your faithful servant in Christ,

William

Archbishop of Dublin

Etc., etc.

P.S. The amounts received are to be sent to W. A. Ryan Esq., Treasurer, Special Committee, Council Rooms, Society of St. Vincent de Paul, 25 Upper O’Connell Street, Dublin.

Yearling read it in his bed in the Nursing Home where he was recovering from a dislocated shoulder. He was enjoying the rest. Mathews had escaped with bruises which still discoloured his face. Yearling read him the letter.

‘So that’s what we are,’ he said, ‘two proselytisers, energetically active.’

‘I forgot to tell you,’ Mathews said, ‘Mrs. Rand and Mrs. Montefiore have been released—on condition that they leave the country.’

‘They’ll miss the collection,’ Yearling said.

‘They can take the credit for it,’ Mathews pointed out, ‘and so can we. If we hadn’t moved, the Hierarchy wouldn’t have noticed any exceptional distress whatever. I wonder will the faithful stump up?’

When the bells of Sunday rang out above the city the collection boxes rattled in the streets and outside the church porches. The Faithful, instructed by their Archbishop, dipped into fob pocket and muff for loose change. There was exceptional distress, now officially recognised. The local clergy in consultation with the laymen who were Brothers of St. Vincent de Paul decided on the distribution. When their duty was done and Sunday was over they read of the arrival in the city of a large contingent of British Blacklegs. They saw nothing wrong in this, although it was designed to take the bread out of the mouths of the men and women and children they had just been collecting for. It was a crime to deport children in order to feed them, but no crime to bring in adults to see that they continued in starvation. When the workers organised a protest, the local clergy and the Brothers of St. Vincent deplored mutually the grip the Atheists held on the city.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

The man who lit the gas-lamps told Pat where the scabs were quartered. It was near Mountjoy Gaol. He also told him where they drank. Pat knew the pub. It was an out-of-way place not far from Drumcondra Bridge. They were escorted there, those who wanted to go, by police. The snag about any attempt to attack them was, the lamplighter pointed out, that the bloody police stayed on all the time to guard them. And incidentally, needless to remark, said the lamplighter—remarking it just the same—to wet their own whistles with more than a law abiding modicum. He himself had seen four of the police having a murderous fight among themselves, with the scabs helping the rest of the police to separate them. A disgraceful scene.

‘There’s example for you,’ the lamplighter said. He was a small man with a pale face and bushy moustache who, it was said by those who should know, wore his bicycle clips in bed.

‘Thanks for the information,’ Pat said to him.

‘Up the Republic,’ the lamplighter answered.

Pat reported to Liberty Hall at a meeting of the Actionists, who had no official existence as such within the union, but who were regularly in session just the same. The problem was how to get rid of the police in order to attack the scabs. They spent some hours deliberating. A diversion was the obvious answer. There was another public house about a hundred yards from the one in which the scabs drank. A mêlée there and the use of a couple of stolen police whistles might do the trick. Joe and Pat, with two of the others, undertook to create the diversion. They would work out a line of retreat for themselves so that they could disappear before the police caught up with them.

After surveying the ground in the course of two morning rambles they were able to propose a plan which had prospects of success. Those who were to attack the scabs could assemble in the early afternoon in a friendly house from which the scabs’ pub could be kept under observation. With Pat and Joe were another carter called Mick and an enormous docker usually addressed as Harmless. Joe would arrive in the pub first. The others would come separately.

The night was suitable. Fog hung in laneways and made the streets damp and uninviting. Pat set off early so that he could check their escape route. He passed the pub where the scabs would assemble later for drink and recreation. The pub he himself would visit looked almost empty. He turned the corner and followed a laneway which led, after a number of intersections, to the banks of the Royal Canal. Some yards along the towpath a barge was tethered. He went aboard. The door of the cabin was open as had been arranged. It would hide them from the police. The next morning, if the search continued, they had only to stay put and the bargeman would take them downstream and let them off at one of the city bridges. It should work smoothly.

Satisfied, he followed the towpath towards the bridge. It was miserably cold and dark. The fog made his hair wet and found its way up his sleeves, chilling him. He was hungry. He lived a lot of the time on bread and tea. Hunger was a state that was constant, yet seldom critical. But it depressed him. The mud on the towpath squelched under his boots, the withered grass at its edge was still tall enough to wet his trouser legs as he brushed past, the waters of the canal were oily and shrouded in mist. At a distance, like something seen through a tunnel, was the main road bridge with its gas-lamps and traffic. He walked towards it; but without enthusiasm.

When he reached it there was still time to kill. He leaned on the parapet. The water cascading through the lock gates made a deafening sound, scattering spume that smelled of rotting vegetation. His thoughts, not for the first time, contemplated defeat. The lock-out was now in its fourth month. Winter would be an ally of the employers. Beating up scabs had become a mere gesture. It provided an outlet, but could no longer achieve anything. There were too many of them and the employers, helped by their cross-channel colleagues, still had plenty of money. There was no real hope. Expropriating the expropriators was a lifetime’s work. Or the work, maybe, of many lifetimes. The boss class stuck together.

‘Pat,’ the voice behind him said. He swung around.

‘Lily.’

She was smiling at him, a slim, familiar figure against the lamplight.

‘I’ve been watching you for ages.’

‘I’m only here five minutes.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘A bit of business,’ he said. ‘Union business.’

‘At this hour?’

‘It’s a bit of night work,’ Pat said grimly. She guessed what he meant.

‘Is it making trouble?’

He smiled.

‘You’re not to,’ she said.

‘A cartload of scabs,’ Pat said. ‘We have a plan to get at them.’

She came to his side and tried to argue with him, but found it difficult to pitch her voice above the roar of the water. She put her arm through his and drew him away. They walked.

‘Have you time?’ she asked.

‘A little,’ he answered.

She said she was angry with him for not coming to her for something to eat. He had promised to do so at least once in the week.

‘You look half famished.’

‘I’ve been doing all right.’

‘I know. Bread and tea. Or pints of porter. That’s no way to go on. Come home with me now and I’ll make something hot for you.’

‘I can’t, Lily.’

‘All right. Walk into town with me.’

‘I have this job to do.’

‘Pat. Suppose you get hurt. You’re not to go.’

‘I have to go.’

‘Then let me come with you,’ she suggested.

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘You’ll get beaten up one of these days,’ she told him. ‘Why don’t you let the others do something for a change? Why is it always you?’

‘It isn’t always me, Lily—there are plenty of others.’

‘I haven’t met them.’

‘They don’t go around wearing badges,’ Pat said.

‘Pat, if you don’t come with me now, you needn’t ask to see me ever again.’

She was angry with him. But she was frightened too.

‘You don’t mean that, Lily.’

‘I do mean it. Try it and see.’ He disengaged his arm.

‘If I don’t go,’ he said, ‘about twenty decent men are going to be let down.’

‘Then, goodbye.’

‘Lily.’

‘I’m sorry I met you tonight.’

‘So am I,’ he said. She walked away. He had no alternative but to let her go. It was time to be about his business.

He pushed her image from his mind because the hurt it caused made it impossible for him to concentrate on his plan. Joe would be seated already in the pub; Mick and Harmless would be already on their way. His hand, exploring his coat pocket, closed about the stone he had hidden there. He would need it later.

There were two policemen on patrol duty, which meant the scabs had begun their night’s drinking. The other police were probably inside. He passed at an easy pace and a little later turned into the public house where Joe was sitting in a corner drinking on his own. Harmless was leaning on the counter, a pint in front of him. Giving no sign of recognition to either, Pat took a position near Harmless and ordered a pint.

‘Hardy night,’ he said generally, while he waited.

‘Fog on the river,’ Harmless said.

‘I heard the groaner at it,’ Pat answered.

‘Bad for the ships,’ said Harmless. The publican, who was drawing the pint, listened.

‘Are you a docker?’ Pat asked.

‘I used to be,’ Harmless said, ‘but it’s a long time since I worked.’

‘Locked out?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Same here,’ Pat said.

The publican brought the pint. Pat paid him.

‘You’re not busy tonight,’ Pat said, drawing him into the conversation.

‘There’s not much business anywhere this weather,’ the publican complained. ‘No money.’

‘There’s a big crowd down the road,’ Pat told him.

‘That crowd. I wouldn’t let them across the door,’ the publican said. ‘Scabs.’

‘Is that a fact?’ Pat asked.

‘With policemen guarding them,’ the publican continued. Harmless indicated that he wanted the same again and the publican went to the taps. He turned around to make a correction.

‘Did I say guarding them?’ he asked. ‘No. Drinking with them would be more correct. And after hours too.’

‘Is that the game?’ Pat said.

‘That’s the carry-on,’ the publican confirmed. ‘Bobbies how-are-yeh. It’s a bloody disgrace.’

‘Imagine that,’ Harmless said, shocked.

The publican brought the pint.

‘Your man that owns the place has one son in the police and another in Holy Orders,’ he said, putting the pint on the counter, ‘and if you were wondering why, out of all the pubs in this vicinity, the police should choose to patronise that certain particular premises—that’s your answer: the Clergy and the Castle.’

‘Influence,’ Pat remarked.

‘Pull,’ the publican asserted.

Someone knocked at the glass partition of the snug and he excused himself.

‘The scabs are in possession,’ Pat said softly to Harmless.

‘And the police?’

‘Two on duty outside. God knows how many inside.’

‘What about our own lads?’

‘They’re all ready. They gave the signal when I passed.’

‘Then we’d better get to work.’

‘We’ll call another pint first,’ Pat said, ‘if anything goes wrong, let it go wrong when I’ve had my few jars and not before.’

Harmless took a tolerant view.

‘That’s very reasonable,’ he said.

They chatted and drank for about half an hour. The money had been given to them for the purpose by the Actionist Committee when Pat pointed out that having some spending money for drink was essential to the plan.

‘With regard to our mutual butty—his jills with the apron,’ Harmless began.

‘You mean the publican?’

‘Just so,’ Harmless confirmed. ‘With regard to his views on serving scabs . . .’

‘He’d serve every scab in the country if he got the chance,’ Pat said, ‘all that oul talk of his is sour grapes because his neighbour down the road got the business.’

‘I know that,’ Harmless agreed, ‘but it’s a good lead-in to what we intend to do next—if you follow me.’

‘I was thinking that myself,’ Pat confessed, ‘but leave the talking to me.’

Harmless nodded benignly.

‘No better man,’ he said.

‘Joe,’ Pat said, while the publican was still absent, ‘the next time you call a drink, come up to the counter and stand beside us.’

Joe nodded and held up his right thumb.

When the publican returned they ordered again. Joe rose and came to the counter.

‘You can do the same for me,’ he told him.

They waited in silence. The publican whistled tunelessly as he operated the pumps. Above his head a gas-lamp made a hissing noise which was incessant yet barely audible.

He gave drinks to Pat and Harmless. Then as he was placing a third on the counter for Joe, Pat took it up and moved it so that it stood between Harmless and himself.