Strumpet City (69 page)

‘I know. But there was a lot of admiration and sympathy for him higher up. I can offer him a job.’

‘Have you been told to?’

‘Not in so many words. But one of the Directors expressed interest in the case and sent word down the line. A bit mad in his way—Yearling.’

Fitz made no comment.

‘He’s the man that left you home on the evening of the accident,’ Carrington supplied.

‘I remember him,’ Fitz said.

‘Will you send young Mulhall down to me?’

‘I will,’ Fitz said.

‘And keep in touch with me. There’s nothing I can do here, but I get to know of odd jobs here and there. They might help to keep things going for you while you look around.’

‘Do you think there’s any point in looking around?’

‘If you can stand up to being sent from pillar to post. Don’t let them beat you.’

Fitz smiled at him.

‘I’m wondering whose side you’re on.’

‘Not on Larkin’s anyway,’ Carrington said. ‘Yours—I suppose.’

‘That’s something,’ Fitz said.

Willie Mulhall started in the foundry a week later. It was his first adult job. His mother came over to thank Mary the moment she got the news.

‘Now I’ll be able to pay back what I owe you,’ she said. She embraced Mary and began to cry.

There was nothing for Fitz. He went from job to job but was turned away time after time. In February the Strike Fund closed down altogether. When that happened Mary put the clock on the pram and wheeled it down to The Erin’s Isle Pawnshop. Mr. Silverwater refused to look at it. He was open for people who wanted to redeem the articles they had pledged, not to take in more. She returned home and Fitz put it back on its place on the mantelpiece.

‘What are we to do?’ she asked him. He had no answer for her. Except to offer to try what Carrington had suggested. That, too, was impossible.

‘We’ll keep trying. Things will be better as the rest begin working again. Something is bound to turn up.’

That evening he borrowed from Joe, who was back at work in Nolan & Keyes.

‘It’ll be a while before I can pay you back,’ he said.

‘Don’t be worrying,’ Joe told him. But he worried just the same. He had never before borrowed money without knowing how he was going to return it. He was starting at the bottom again—a scavenger for odd jobs.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Pat was passing the shop with its display of religious goods when the little foreman stopped him on the pavement and said:

‘I don’t seem to have seen you around lately?’

‘I’ve been in gaol,’ Pat said.

‘When did you get out?’

‘This morning, about two hours ago.’

‘And what was it like?’

Pat considered.

‘A bit confined,’ he decided.

‘Come over here with me, for the love of God.’

‘What is it?’ Pat asked.

The little foreman insisted on dragging him over to the window.

‘Have a look at that,’ he invited, pointing at it. Pat looked in.

‘Well—I’ll be damned,’ he said.

Inside the window, with a pencil behind his ear and a roll of dockets peeping from the breast pocket of his shop coat, Timothy Keever was struggling to put a statue of St. Patrick on display. The statue was heavy and the window space already crowded.

‘Watch this,’ said the little foreman. Pat had met him from time to time in various bookmakers’ shops, where his fellow-punters knew him as Ballcock Brannigan. He now banged with his fist on the glass to attract Keever’s attention. Neither could hear the other because of the thickness of the glass, so Ballcock began to convey his instructions in dumbshow. Keever, indicating that he understood, moved first a statue of St. Christopher and another of the Little Flower. But the rearrangement was unsuccessful. He looked out for further instructions.

‘Move the other stuff first.’ Ballcock shouted in at him. Keever shook his head.

‘Did you ever see such a thick?’ Ballcock asked Pat. He gave the instruction again, this time in dumbshow. Keever acknowledged and set to work again. He shifted a heavily mounted candle, Paschal in design; then a set of purple vestments, appropriate liturgically to the seasons of Advent and Lent; then a shroud which would provide for the last sartorial decencies of some deceased Brother of the Third Order of St. Francis. In his struggle with these complexities he banged his head severely against a sanctuary lamp, a pendulous one with a red bowl and a brass container.

‘Holy Jaysus,’ Ballcock said. Keever, reaching up to steady the lamp which was swaying from the blow, nearly toppled the statue nearest to him. Ballcock hammered furiously on the glass.

‘You clumsy bastard,’ he shouted. Keever looked out, puzzled.

‘Deaf as well as everything else,’ Ballcock decided. He turned his back to the glass and lit a cigarette.

‘That’s what you get for employing ex-scabs,’ Pat said.

‘No choice of mine,’ Ballcock said. ‘Clerical influence—that’s what has Keever in his job. Here, have a cigarette.’

‘Thanks,’ Pat said.

‘I suppose you haven’t been doing the horses lately?’

‘They didn’t encourage it,’ Pat said. ‘What’s any good today?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s good,’ Ballcock confided. ‘Packleader at Leicester in the two-forty. It’s information which I got from a priest that’s a customer—a most Reverend punter.’

‘I haven’t done a horse for months,’ Pat told him.

‘Nor nothing else neither,’ Ballcock said, ‘not if gaol’s the same as in my day.’

‘That’s right,’ Pat agreed. ‘Nothing else.’

‘Well—be true to the Church and back Packleader. Follow your clergy. Have you a job?’

‘I don’t know. I’m on my way down to Nolan & Keyes to find out.’

‘If you don’t pick it up right away,’ Ballcock offered, ‘drop back to me. I have three days casual I can give you.’

‘I’d be glad of it.’

‘Welcome,’ Ballcock said. He flung away his cigarette butt and looked again at the window. Keever was doing his best to rearrange the display.

‘Excuse me,’ Ballcock said, ‘I have a few things to discuss with mahogany skull there.’

He strode in and called Keever from the window. They both disappeared into the back of the shop.

It was a cold, blustering day, with a sky that was too bright and too wide after his months in prison and streets that were noisy and suddenly unfamiliar. The shop window was better. It was neatly framed and, now that Keever had left, comfortingly devoid of speech and movement. St. Patrick, the National Apostle, occupied a central position. In green robes and bishop’s mitre he gazed past Pat at the streets of the capital city. Snakes at his feet cowered in petrified terror of his golden crozier and in his right hand a stone shamrock symbolised the mystery of the Unity and the Most Holy Trinity. St. Patrick’s Day, Pat calculated, was almost exactly a week away. He was glad to make the calculation. It brought him into touch with everyday life for the first time since his release.

There was a second fact to be absorbed. Tonight, all going well, he would sleep in the House of the Boer War Heroes. Lily’s letter to him had said so. While he finished his cigarette he took it from his pocket and read it again:

. . . you will have nowhere of your own to stay after all those months will you but don’t worry the landlady here is away I have the house all to myself and I can put you up for the night which will give you a bit of a chance to look around for somewhere but don’t come until after seven o’clock so as I will be home from my work. Everything with me is all right hospital was a great rest and I have good news for you Pat which is why I want you to come as well but watch out for the neighbours if they as much as well you know what I mean be careful for God’s sake or we are both sunk . . .

At seven o’clock, about ten hours away, he would see her and be staying with her again. The thought made him restless. He returned the letter to his pocket and began to walk. There was his job to be enquired about. There was this suddenly unfamiliar city to be considered. They were not the streets of a few months before. No collection boxes rattled, no pickets were on patrol, the trams ran without police protection. It seemed a tame end to eight months of struggle. He wondered how his mates on the job would feel about it. He quickened his pace.

Gulls circling above the river gladdened his heart. That and the strong smell of the sea. His spirit now welcomed all sounds, those of crane and ship, dray wheel and bogey. The width of the sky exalted him. He stopped and was overjoyed at the sight of the unloading gangs along the wharf. To men he did not know he shouted.

‘Hi, mate—more power.’

They grinned and waved back. There was no defeat in the faces he passed. They sweated familiarly, were dust-coated, had ready answers. They had spirits that recovered easily from adversity. A few weeks’ work and everything was as it had always been. More or less. There was little to be lost that was worth pining about.

The gates of Nolan & Keyes stood wide open, a sunlit space where the air smelled of tar from the nearby gasworks. It was noonday now. The carters were either off on their rounds or gathered in the shed near the stables having their midday food.

Suddenly unsure, he stepped into the gateman’s hut and found the yard foreman drinking tea and smoking his pipe by the gas fire. The foreman looked around, then rose slowly.

‘Pat Bannister,’ he said. To Pat’s surprise he held out his hand.

‘Back again,’ Pat said, taking it.

‘When did you get out?’

‘This morning.’

‘You should have let me know.’

That was hopeful.

‘They weren’t greatly in favour of letter-writing,’ Pat said.

‘You’re looking for a start?’

‘I came down here first thing.’

‘Certainly,’ the foreman said.

‘When?’

‘Right now, if you like. There’s a half-day left.’

‘That’d suit fine.’

‘Quinn has your horse I’m afraid,’ the foreman said, ‘but Mulcahy’s out sick so you could yoke up his. Come on the scales with the rest of them after the meal break and I’ll have a half-day made up for you.’

Pat hesitated. He wondered about the form, but there seemed to be nothing else.

‘No formalities?’

‘Not here,’ the foreman said. ‘Nolan & Keyes and Doggett’s want to get on with the bloody work. But don’t go shouting out loud about Larkin. Give it a rest for a while.’

‘Are the lads below?’

‘They are,’ the foreman said, ‘you’ll find them chewing the rag—as usual.’

‘I’ll be glad to do the half-day,’ Pat confessed.

‘It’ll be waiting for you,’ the foreman assured him.

He thanked him and made his way across the yard. He was hungry and the light but pungent smell of tar aggravated it. He strode out and began to sing. It was a great joy to be able to walk freely. He knocked ceremoniously on the door of the men’s shed and then pushed it inwards.

All the faces turned around. There was Joe and Harmless, Quinn and Mick. There were three or four others as well. Mick jumped to his feet and came forward.

‘Pat,’ he shouted and threw his arms about him.

The others stood up.

‘Well—I declare to God,’ Joe said as Mick dragged him over to the fire, ‘they let him out.’

‘And bloody nearly time,’ Quinn told them.

Harmless expressed agreement.

‘Just so,’ he said.

They shook hands with him in turn. Then they all settled down to fire questions at him.

‘When are you starting?’

‘What was it like?’

‘Did you do the full stretch?’

‘How do you feel after it?’

Pat looked at the cans of tea and the food.

‘I’ll tell you how I feel,’ Pat said, ‘I’m starving with hunger.’

They plied him with sandwiches. Harmless made a special show.

‘Take this one,’ he said, ‘there’s two nice rashers in it.’

‘Showing off,’ Mick said.

‘By reason of the missus taking in two lodgers recently,’ Harmless explained modestly, ‘they don’t always finish their breakfasts.’

‘I’m starting this afternoon,’ Pat said, answering an earlier question.

‘Dammit,’ Quinn said, ‘I’m using your horse.’

‘It’s all right. I can yoke up Mulcahy’s. The yard foreman said so.’

‘I wish you luck with it,’ Joe told him, ‘it won’t pass a pub.’

‘A sagacious beast,’ Harmless remarked. ‘I seen Mulcahy and that animal many a morning—and both of them with a hangover.’

The food tasted real for the first time in a long score of weeks. The tea was strong and sweet and hot. The stove blazed with familiar cheerfulness. There was an all pervading smell of horses.

‘What’s all the news?’ Pat asked.

‘Terrible weather. Floods all along the Shannon. You were well off to be inside.’

‘There’s bad foot-and-mouth disease down the country too. We’ve been keeping a sharp eye on the horses.’

‘That’s why Mulcahy’s out.’

‘Mulcahy hasn’t got foot and mouth,’ Harmless objected.

‘I mean the rain,’ Quinn explained, ‘too many severe wettings.’

‘They say Home Rule is coming.’

‘So is Christmas,’ Harmless remarked, looking sceptical.

‘I’m going by what’s in the papers every day.’

‘And I was remarking with regard to Sir Edward Carson.’

‘You think he’ll get Ulster excluded?’

‘Just so.’

‘Home Rule or no Home Rule,’ Joe said, ‘you and me won’t notice any great difference.’

‘Certainly,’ Harmless agreed.

‘And the union?’ Pat asked. ‘What about the union?’

‘Down, but not out,’ Quinn told him, ‘we’ll rise again.’

‘When the fields are white with daisies, we’ll return,’ Mick prophesied.

‘We’ve the members and the Hall still, anyway.’

‘All we’re short of,’ Joe commented, looking cynical, ‘is the money.’

‘Like myself,’ Harmless added.

The yard foreman blew his whistle.

‘Yoke up mates,’ Quinn said, shaking the wet tea leaves from the can into the fire, which sizzled and hissed and spat out angry spurts of steam at him.

He took his afternoon easily because he had to. The knack of shouldering sacks had not deserted him—after three or four journeys he was back again into a rhythm of lifting and turning that had been perfected over a lifetime. But his back and shoulder muscles gave him trouble and his legs, after a couple of journeys up narrow stairways, protested painfully at the weight of the load he had to carry. He also discovered that it was no slander to put it around that Mulcahy’s horse was fond of its beer. It stopped outside three public houses where it had come to regard itself as a regular and refused to budge until one of the curates brought out the dregs of porter from the pan.