Strumpet City (71 page)

‘It’s nicer to be out,’ Pat admitted.

‘It’s nicer for me too,’ she said softly. The tenderness that had been denied for so long overwhelmed him. He took her in his arms and she yielded warmly to him. His heart quickened with happiness.

After some minutes she moved a little away from him and said:

‘You didn’t ask me about my good news.’

‘I thought I’d let you come to that in your own good time,’ he said. He was a little bit apprehensive, wondering if she had got a job which would take her away, or if she had met somebody who meant more to her. He was not certain that he wanted to hear.

‘It’s about that thing which used to worry me.’

‘What thing?’

‘Oh, God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do I have to use the deaf-and-dumb alphabet?’

He knew then what she meant. It had become so much a part of their knowledge of each other that he had not considered it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘When I was in hospital there was this nun. She was very kind and I think she took a fancy to me. Anyway I screwed up the nerve to mention it to her and she insisted on me having all sorts of examinations.’

He waited. It was a subject he had learned not to discuss.

‘Pat,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing at all wrong with me. I’ve got a clean bill.’

He reached out and took her hand. But he knew it was better not to say anything. He was never sure on this score.

She said: ‘So—if you still want to marry me—everything seems to be all right.’

‘Lily,’ he said.

She laughed and came close to him.

‘I was a bit of a fool in those days, wasn’t I?’ she said. ‘I was going to be smart and make easy money. That’s what I thought. A bloody little fool. It’s just as well I got a fright that knocked a bit of sense into me.’

‘It’s a long time ago, Lily. I wouldn’t go on thinking about it.’

‘I suppose we’re both fools. That means we ought to suit each other.’

‘Down to the ground,’ Pat agreed.

‘Well—are you going to ask me?’

‘Ask you what?’

She appealed again to Queen Victoria.

‘Listen to him,’ she begged.

He realised what she meant and made amends.

‘Will you—Lily?’

‘Yes,’ she answered.

He looked in his turn at Queen Victoria and a thought struck him.

‘Do you want to ask her permission?’

‘I don’t recognise royalty any longer,’ Lily decided.

‘A Sinn Feiner?’

‘No,’ Lily said, ‘Workers’ Republic.’

‘Grand,’ Pat pronounced, ‘we’ll get on together like Siamese twins.’

He kissed her and they became serious again. There were no more barriers. Love and tenderness engulfed both of them. Rashers moaned in the darkness. The fire had burnt itself out. The streak of light had left the ceiling. A chill dampness filled the basement and settled on his beard and on the rags that covered him. The burning agony in his bowels was turning his insides into vapour and water. He tried to raise himself but found that in one arm and one leg there was no sensation at all. They hung with an immovable weight, pinning him down.

‘Sweet Christ,’ he repeated over and over again. ‘Sweet Christ.’

He listened for sounds that would tell how near it might be to morning. There were none. The house above him slept, the streets outside were empty. He felt his bowels loosening and ground his teeth as he fought to control them. If he fouled what he was wearing there was nothing he could change into. He made another desperate effort to get to his feet. It was useless. He had no power over his limbs. He was held by the weight of his ailing body.

‘Rusty,’ he called, the dog came to him.

‘Lie down,’ he said, ‘lie down.’

In the dense darkness he could see nothing, but he felt the weight of the dog as it settled against his side. For a moment there was comfort in that. He could hear it breathing in the darkness and feel the warmth of its body. The world was not entirely empty. Then the pains became worse. He felt his bowels melting and loosening in spite of his will. A burning hot liquid trickled incontinently. He made an agonising effort to stop it but failed. With a sudden rush his bowels voided their contents of foulness and gas. He felt his buttocks sticky and saturated. But he still could not move. He had an interval of complete numbness, without pain or thought of any kind. Then the slow agony inside him flickered into life and began its mounting torture all over again.

In the morning Pat slipped out of the house when Lily signalled to him that the way was clear. At the loading yard he found he had his own horse back again. He was pleased when it greeted him with signs of excitement. His first stop was at a bookmaker’s office, where he found his Double had turned up, Packleader winning by four lengths from Romer and Enoch at seven to two—Revolution by a length from Duke of Leinster and Prince Danzel at nine to four on. The collapse of the aristocracy was a good omen. Fitz, he reckoned roughly, would draw about fourteen shillings. He did not grudge it. Securing the sack about his shoulders with a large safety pin Lily had supplied he strode out to face the work of the long day. There would be other and better doubles. His heart told him he was on a winning streak.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

On St. Patrick’s Day, the newspapers reported, the weather was somewhat sharp—but for the robust, healthy and invigorating. The display of the chosen leaf was universal. In the Pro-Cathedral and other churches the ceremonies were specially devoted to panegyrics of the national Saint and sermons in Irish were preached to crowded congregations. A visiting English priest reminded the Irish Faithful that it was fifteen hundred years since Ireland’s great Father and Friend had passed away to the music of the spheres. Another referred to Home Rule and prophesied that the hour of National deliverance was at last at hand. The shop windows of the city, including the one Keever had dressed, devoted themselves to displays of home-manufactured goods while the citizens, most of whom had a holiday, went to the races at Baldoyle or made extended excursions by train, tram and outside car. From the flagstaffs of the Town Halls from Dublin to Bray the green flag was floating, Kingstown being the only exception. It was the exception that proved the Rule.

At the Mansion House the Gaelic League denounced the Post Office for refusing to accept parcels addressed in Irish. At the Castle there was a St. Patrick’s Ball where the excellent music of the band, the gaily moving dancers, the beautiful costumes of the ladies, the bright and varied military uniforms of the officers and officials, the stately Court dress of the gentlemen, all blended in a pleasing kaleidoscope of colour and harmony. Earlier his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant had attended the trooping of the colour in the Castle yard, where he inspected the parade of the Second Battalion West Riding Regiment. It was thrash the beetles and God Save the King; Hail Glorious St. Patrick for Britannia Ruled the Waves.

Hennessy inspected a parade too. It was the procession of the Irish National Foresters in their plumed hats and tight breeches, marching on their way from Parnell Square to Donnybrook Church, headed by members of the Ladies’ Section in their long cloaks. In order to do so fittingly he bought a buttonhole of shamrock with a penny and told the vendor to keep the change. He found the day robust and sharp, but not invigorating. He had continuous trouble with a drop on the end of his nose due to the wind and an attack of chronic catarrh. He wiped it away several times but it kept on turning up again. Like a bad ha’penny, he decided.

It did not affect his humour. He had had regular work for some weeks that paid modestly and was full time. It would continue for another fortnight at least. After that it would be time enough to worry again. For the present he had a little money, the National Festival to celebrate, a band to listen to and a parade to gawk at.

It was a good parade. The Foresters stepping it out in their ostrich-plumed hats, their frilled shirts, their top boots, their green coats and plentiful gold braid brought back the age of Erin The Brave. In line upon line the proud brotherhood passed him, imperishable, glorious, while with erect soldierly bearing and eyes flashing under the rim of his bowler hat he reviewed them rank by rank—Robert Emmet Hennessy; Aloysius Wolfe Tone. The band made his heart beat hard and sent his blood racing. It played (but in march time, he noted) ‘O Rich And Rare were the Gems She Wore’, which told of a maiden who adorned in costly jewels and without escort of any kind walked the length and breadth of Ireland unafraid of robbery or assault.

Hennessy repeated to himself:

‘Kind sir I have not the least alarm

No son of Erin would offer me harm

For, though they love women and golden store

Sir Knight—they love honour and virtue more.’

So too did Son of Erin Robert Emmet Hennessy, the Honour and Virtue loving Aloysius Wolfe Tone.

The parade passed, the music of the band faded away on the somewhat sharp but healthy and invigorating March air. He had been to holy mass already. It was time to wet the shamrock. A hot whiskey, he thought.

‘Sharp weather,’ he said as he asked for it.

‘It’s healthy,’ the publican said.

‘Better than the rain,’ a customer put in.

‘Invigorating,’ the publican agreed.

Hennessy removed the drop from his nose and wondered if the publican would be as enthusiastic if he had to be out in it. But the golden colour in his glass and the steam rising from it mollified him.

‘Here’s the first today,’ he said, raising the glass in salute.

‘
Sláinte
,’ the publican returned.

The other customer approved.

‘That’s what I like to hear,’ he told Hennessy, ‘an Irishman using his native language—matteradam whether he knows much or little of it.’

‘I know damn all about it,’ the publican confessed honestly, ‘except that
sláinte
bit and Conus Tawtoo. And—oh yes—slawn lath.’

‘There you are,’ said the customer encouragingly, ‘you know a fair bit just the same.’

‘If I had to confess my sins in it,’ said the publican, ‘I’d stay unshriven.’

He was a man who refused to be flattered.

‘Are you an exponent yourself, sir?’ Hennessy enquired, adopting a tone of gentility in deference to the other’s air of education and good manners.

‘In a modest way,’ the other confessed, ‘I’ve attended classes.’

‘At mass this morning the sermon was in Irish,’ Hennessy told them. ‘It was a grand thing to hear.’

‘And did you understand it?’ the publican asked.

‘Well—no,’ Hennessy admitted.

‘I fail to see the sense in that,’ the publican decided. He was counting empty bottles into a crate.

‘In honour of the National Apostle,’ Hennessy explained.

‘And did St. Patrick speak Irish?’

‘Fluently,’ the customer said.

‘I didn’t know that, mind you,’ the publican admitted.

‘Irish and Latin,’ Hennessy confirmed.

‘Latin, naturally,’ the customer agreed, ‘it was the language of the Universal Church.’

‘If he didn’t know Irish,’ said Hennessy, pressing his point, ‘how could he have explained our holy religion to the Irish princes and chiefs. There wasn’t one of them knew a word of English.’

‘French,’ the customer corrected.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘French,’ the customer repeated, ‘St. Patrick’s native language was French.’

‘Well—French then,’ Hennessy amended. ‘I doubt any of the Irish princes spoke French.’

‘To be fair now,’ said the customer, ‘some of them might have. There was a lot of trade with the Continent, if you remember.’

‘That’s true,’ Hennessy said, with an educated nod.

The publican hoisted the full crate on to the counter and exclaimed blasphemously as he jammed his thumb in the process. Then he apologised and said:

‘That’s one kind of language the Saint wouldn’t know, I’ll warrant.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ the customer said, ‘he could be crusty enough.’

‘Giving out oul lip to God at times, I believe,’ Hennessy said.

‘That’s true. When he was fasting up there on Croagh Patrick and wrestling with the devil. He hammered hard at God to get the privilege from him of being allowed to be the judge of the race of the Gael on the Last Day.’

‘He got that promise—I understand,’ Hennessy said.

‘I take a lot of that stuff with a grain of salt,’ the publican told them. He was cooling his bruised thumb under the counter tap.

‘Ah well,’ Hennessy said, ‘whoever it is does the judging, I hope he won’t be too hard on any of us.’

‘Right enough,’ the publican said, relenting, ‘the only difference between any of us is that if one of us is bad, the other is a damn sight worse.’

‘Amen to that,’ said the customer.

They had another in honour of the day that was in it, the publican, despite initial reservations about the earliness of the hour at length consenting in deference to the demands of true patriotism, to join them. They toasted the cause of Ireland which was Holy and their kin both at home and in exile. They then shook hands and said slan leat several times and went their various ways.

Hennessy was a little light in the head. He was also very happy. He liked things going on about him and welcomed the holiday bustle in the streets. The public buildings were gay with flags, men and women wore their sprays of shamrock pinned to their coats or pushed jauntily into their hat bands. The little girls had green ribbons in their hair, the small boys wore harps and St. Patrick badges on their jerseys. He was glad he had got mass on his way from his night work and that he had the foresight to bring something in with him so that he could have his breakfast on the job. It left him free to enjoy the celebrations without the inconvenience of feeling hungry. Later he would arrive home with little gifts to distribute. For the moment the church bells and the traffic and the sounds of parading bands were blending together in a wave of welcome excitement. It was Ireland’s Great Day.