Strumpet City (9 page)

The leaves above them shook furiously and the dislodged drops soaked both of them. Mary shivered and said: ‘I must go. They might miss me.’

‘I’ll send word,’ he said.

‘Tell me you love me.’

‘I love you.’

‘Think of me later and say it too.’

‘I’ll say it all the way home,’ he answered.

He waited until she had gone into the house and the candlelight showed in her window. Then he went off. She thought of him battling his way back to the city, his head down against the rain. His confidence had reassured her. The future no longer filled her with dread and uncertainty.

In the first days of the New Year Mary left the Bradshaws’ home for ever. She met Fitz once again in the garden and closed the gate quietly, this time from the outside. She had a small case of belongings and sixteen pounds, the fortune she had managed to save. They walked all the way to the city, a journey which took over two hours. When they reached the Farrells’ house Mrs. Farrell was waiting with tea for them. She asked no questions.

The next day Fitz moved to a room elsewhere and Mary wrote two letters. The one to her father assured him that she was safe and that he must not worry about her. The one to Mrs. Bradshaw found the house in chaos for want of servants, a troublesome situation which continued for a couple of weeks, when suitable new recruits were eventually found. Miss Gilchrist’s partial paralysis remained, until in the end Mr. Bradshaw made up his mind. Her removal to the workhouse upset Mrs. Bradshaw for several months.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Winter was always the worst time in that city. In autumn the trees along suburban roads were venerable but elegant; in winter they were gnarled and ragged ancients, with rheumatic knuckles and bones. The large houses became draughty and hard to heat; the young children on their way to Miss Tieler’s ballet and dancing class in Molesworth Hall wore gaiters over thick stockings and top-coats over jerseys and shawls, so that when they alighted from trams and cabs they were recognisable because of their enormous size. In the mornings just at the breakfast hour the poor searched diligently in the ashbins of the well-to-do for half-burnt cinders and carried sacks and cans so that as much as possible of the fuel might be salvaged. The ashbin children were pinched and wiry and usually barefooted. They lived on the cast-offs. They came each morning from the crowded rooms in the cast-off houses of the Rich; elegant Georgian buildings which had grown old and had been discarded. The clothes they wore had been cast off by their parents, who had bought them as cast-offs in the second-hand shops in Little Mary Street or Winetavern Street. If the well-to-do had stopped casting off for even a little while the children would have gone homeless and fireless and naked. But nobody really thought about that. These things Were.

It was a bad time for the carters, rising by candlelight, shivering on their way to work before six o’clock, wondering would there be ice on the streets to keep the horses in the stables. And for the building trade, where every other day the weather became ugly and there was broken time. The dockers hated winter. They huddled in groups on the quayside and waited through interminable mornings for ships that had been delayed.

It was a bad time all round. The east wind beat in from the sea and drove under the arches of the river, so that when the gulls rose with a cry from the water it hurled them backwards in a high, swift curve. The Farrells’ house, where Mary continued to stay, quivered often at night because of the great beating of the sea. She had grown used to its sound while with the Bradshaws, but here it was nearer and more violent. Frequently, when she walked along the front in the mornings, she found the beach strewn with driftwood and debris. After a while she began to join others in collecting what could be used for fuel. At times, when she sat listening to the sea and the wind, her thoughts turned to the house in Kingstown and she wondered if Mrs. Bradshaw still complained of the draughts from the folding doors.

On one of the bleakest nights the great coal-stack in the foundry went on fire. Fitz, who was on duty, was called out a little after midnight by Carrington the foreman. At first there were no flames and the smoke could not be seen in the pitch darkness. But both recognised the smell, a particular odour which left a thick taste on the tongue. They traced it to the lower yard, after much uncertain groping and guessing. The smoke was heavy in the yard and hit them so suddenly that they both swallowed it and coughed. From the darkness beside Fitz, Carrington’s voice said: ‘It’s the coal-stack.’

It had happened before. Carrington, wondering if he should put the emergency routine into operation, hesitated.

‘I wonder how bad it is?’

‘We won’t know until we disturb it,’ Fitz said, ‘and when we do that it may be too late.’

‘I’ll see about getting the brigade,’ Carrington decided. ‘Take out enough of the furnace crew to rig up the lighting set and see about mustering extra help.’

A little later the city, huddled behind drenched housefronts, stirred to hear the clangour of bells in the empty streets. As the first engine swung into the yard the men were already moving the lighting set into position. A cloud of smoke, bent at an angle by the wind, showed up blackly.

‘Why the hell wouldn’t it happen in summer,’ one of the men said.

They had shovels ready and were crouching in the meagre shelter of the lamp supports. Sleet slanted intermittently, a curtain between the darkness and the lamps. The brigade men were in position with hoses ready.

The foreman had some words with the chief before he ordered the labourers forward. They dug gingerly, testing for the source of the fire and leaving small mounds of coal about the main stack. After a while one of the men, digging deeper than the rest, sprang aside and called out. A small tongue of flame licked upwards. Carrington said to Fitz:

‘You’d better call out help. We’ll need carters and more men to dig.’

Fitz found the list in the time office, where the timekeeper, half asleep over the fire, jumped up in alarm at his entrance.

‘Blast you anyway,’ he said. ‘I thought for a minute you were Carrington.’

‘I’ve come for the emergency list,’ Fitz said, ‘the main coal-stack is on fire.’

The timekeeper produced it from a drawer.

‘We use the carters from Doggett & Co.,’ he said. ‘Barney Mulhall is the man to see first.’

‘Have you his address?’

‘Chandlers Court,’ the timekeeper said, his eyes searching down the list. ‘Here you are—number three.’

Fitz took his bicycle and headed out into the streets. He was the only traveller. The city was dead and dark and windswept. In addition to the carters there would be labourers needed. He decided to call on Pat Bannister, with whom he had been sharing a room since Mary had gone to the Farrells. Pat was out of work because for the moment the storage yard of Nolan & Keyes was packed to capacity. He decided to call on Farrell too: he was still being ignored by the stevedores. There was at least a night’s work in it for each of them. The double line of tram-tracks gleamed wetly as he turned across them into Chandlers Court and found number three with difficulty. The hall door was closed over, but there was no lock and he pushed it in with his shoulder. A dog barked from the basement as he entered the hall. He climbed two flights. It was impossible not to make a noise on the bare boards and to stumble now and then on the uneven stairs. The walls in the dim light of the oil lamp he had taken from his bicycle were greasy and peeling. The smell of communal living lay heavily and unpleasantly on the landing. He knocked at the door of the two pair back and noticed that the paint was cracking and blistered as though there had been a fire.

After a while there were movements and a deep voice asked: ‘Who is it?’

‘Emergency call,’ Fitz answered, ‘Morgan’s Foundry.’

‘Hold your horses,’ the voice acknowledged.

Fitz waited patiently. Somewhere above a baby had begun to cry. It was remote yet it transformed everything. There was more here than darkness, than decay, than evil smells. Behind each of these peeling doors, from the ground to the top, there was a home. A man who was naked except for a pair of trousers which he held in position with one hand, opened the door and said: ‘Step in.’

Fitz hesitated.

‘Do as you’re told,’ the man insisted. He was obviously used to laying down the law. Fitz noticed his bulk and height. But there was a pleasant note in his voice. He was not a bully.

Mulhall made way for him and he entered the room. The atmosphere was close, but snugly so. The only illumination was the red glow of a lamp which stood on the mantelpiece before a statue of the Sacred Heart. A yellow circle of light wavered on the ceiling above it. As Mulhall pulled on his shirt there were movements in the far corner. A match gleamed and a gas ring threw a blue light. Mulhall, having pulled his braces over his huge shoulders, lit a candle and said:

‘What the hell are you at now?’

‘Keep your voice quiet,’ the woman whispered. She was elderly. Fitz knew by the voice and by her stooping movements in the combined light of candle and gas ring.

‘That’s herself,’ Mulhall said to Fitz, pulling on his socks.

The woman said: ‘You’ll waken the child.’

Mulhall chuckled deeply and said to Fitz: ‘The child is in the bed beyond there. He’s fifteen and nearly as big as I am.’

Fitz guessed at, rather than saw, a single bed in the far corner.

‘What’s your name?’ Mulhall asked.

‘Fitzpatrick,’ Fitz said.

There were sounds near the gas ring; the thump of a kettle, the rattle of cups.

‘She’s making tea,’ Mulhall confided. He was having trouble with one of his boots.

‘It won’t take a minute,’ the woman said, ‘and you’ll be glad you had it when you face the street outside,’ Then she said: ‘You might ask the young man to take the weight off his legs.’

Fitz could see them better now. Mulhall had thick grey hair above a heavy forehead. The woman, a coat thrown about her shoulders, had once been tall. Her movements were gentle. In the candlelight her shadow bobbed from wall to wall as she put cups on the table and cut bread.

‘Sit over,’ she said.

‘Dear God,’ Mulhall protested, ‘a bloody coal-stack on fire—and she makes tea.’

‘Take it in your hand and swallow it.’ She listened to the wind for a moment and added: ‘It’s a terrible night.’

The second bed was in the angle between a small window and the far wall. Fitz could see it better now. There were movements from it and a boy sat up, blinking. He had a handsome face with dark hair tumbled about the forehead.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Emergency call,’ Mulhall answered.

‘I knew you’d wake him,’ the woman said. She turned to Fitz and explained: ‘The child is in the parcels department in the Tramway. He has a six o’clock start.’

The tea was sweet and hot—too hot. Mulhall emptied his into a saucer and drank it that way.

‘Do you need extra help?’

‘We could do with some,’ Fitz said.

‘Glory be to God,’ his wife said, ‘you’re surely not thinking of the child?’

Mulhall said to her, ‘Will you let me talk, woman.’ He glared at her for a moment over his shoulder. Then he spoke to Fitz.

‘There’s a poor divil upstairs with a wife and a couple of children. He could do with a night’s work.’

‘Is it Mr. Hennessy?’ his wife asked. Again Fitz noted that she was a quiet-spoken woman.

‘The Toucher Hennessy,’ Mulhall confirmed.

‘Then they’ve four children,’ his wife corrected.

‘Holy God,’ Mulhall said, ‘that woman is like a rabbit.’

‘I’ll go up and get him,’ Fitz agreed.

They left down their cups and while Mulhall set off to alert the carters Fitz climbed the remaining stairs. He was now in the attic, on a narrow landing where the ceiling was so low that he stooped. The baby was crying again when he knocked. A woman’s voice responded.

‘Who is it?’

‘We have a night’s work in the foundry, if Mr. Hennessy will take it,’ Fitz shouted.

There was a long interval. He heard whispering inside. Then the woman shouted: ‘He wants to know what kind of work it is.’

Fitz explained and there was another interlude. Then the door opened and a small skinny man looked up into his face.

‘I hope you’ll pardon the preliminary enquiry,’ he said with great politeness, ‘but what class of work is involved?’

‘Digging coal,’ Fitz said.

‘Aw God, wouldn’t that vex you now. I’ve no shovel.’ Fitz thought there was a note of relief in the voice.

‘They’ll give you a shovel,’ the woman shouted, ‘won’t youse, mister?’

‘That’s right,’ Fitz said, ‘we can supply a shovel.’

The man considered this. Then he asked cautiously:

‘Is there any climbing?’

‘What has that to do with it?’ Fitz asked.

‘I’ve no head for heights,’ Hennessy said.

‘Don’t listen to a bloody word he says, mister,’ the woman screamed, ‘he’s only acting the old soldier.’

‘There’s no climbing,’ Fitz said.

With obvious lack of enthusiasm for the prospect of facing the raw and laborious night, Hennessy turned up the collar of his coat and cast a despairing glance back at the room.

‘All right—I’ll go,’ he said.

He followed Fitz on to the street and set off in the direction of the foundry. His figure was huddled against the cold, his pace reluctant. Fitz went to his own place to rouse Pat Bannister and then to Farrell’s. He waited in the kitchen while Farrell dressed, all the time conscious that behind the door to the left of the fireplace Mary lay sleeping. He was torn between his desire to speak to her and his reluctance to disturb her. Before he could make up his mind Farrell had joined him and they went down to the foundry together.

As they walked Farrell said: ‘I won’t forget it to you for coming down for me.’

‘Who else would I call on?’ Fitz said, easily.

But he was shocked at the change in Farrell. He had not seen much of him since moving out to make room for Mary. Most of the time Farrell had been out searching for work. Or, if he was in, he had remained in his own room. He was not simply out of work. He was a marked man, barred by one stevedore after another, a man who had tried on his own to break a highly organised system of petty extortion.