by James Hanley
‘A cod! You mean you made a mistake,’ said Mr Mulcare. ‘One doesn’t have to spend seven years in a college in order to discover that it was all a cod.’ He had an idea that the boy was lying. He began to finger the empty glass. ‘Barman,’ he called, ‘come here.’ The barman came hurrying forward. ‘Same!’ said Mulcare. He turned to Peter. ‘I once went to college too,’ he said, and a smile appeared.
‘You did?’ Peter was surprised.
‘Yes, but I didn’t stay seven years like you. Only two years, Peter.’
The boy smiled. It was the first time the man had called him by his Christian name.
‘I hated it,’ said Peter. He had warmed to the man, and was becoming more expansive. ‘It was like gaol.’
‘Gaol! What were you training for? Priesthood?’
‘Yes,’ replied Peter.
‘I am sure your mother was disappointed,’ said Mr Mulcare. Peter remained silent. After a while Mulcare added, ‘I like your mother.’ Then he turned round and looked towards the door. ‘What a time your father is!’ he said.
So this man had been at college, and now he was a sailor. Peter wanted to know more. ‘What college were you at, Mr Mulcare?’ he asked.
‘It’s such a while ago that I’ve forgotten. I wish your father would hurry.’ He turned to look at the door again. Peter looked at the man in the corner. The woman was now sitting on his knee. The man kept saying, ‘Drink it, dearie. Get it down your gul. You’ll need it.’ With a none too steady hand he forced the glass to the woman’s mouth. She laughed into it so that the spirit splashed about her face. ‘Clumsy! Clumsy!’
Mulcare placed a hand upon the boy’s arm. ‘You want to go to sea. Why?’ There was something so direct about the question that Peter, his thoughts momentarily absorbed by the actions of the man and woman in the corner, from which pair it seemed he could not now take his eyes, that he replied without turning his head, ‘Because I want to see the world. To see life!’ The man and the woman suddenly looked his way, tittered, and then to the boy’s complete surprise drank his health from the same glass.
‘Good luck to the laddie. All the best, Softy.’
Mulcare laughed. Peter blushed and looked down at his half-empty glass of lemonade. ‘What a time your father is,’ said Mulcare. ‘Hasn’t fallen down, I hope.’
‘Yes. Your mother is a fine woman,’ said Mr Mulcare. He picked up his glass and looked over its brim at the boy as he added, ‘Well, good luck to you, boy!’ He drained his glass and put it down on the table. Where the devil had Mr Fury got to? Surely he hadn’t gone out for any special reason. He looked at Peter, who was still watching the antics of the inebriated lady and gentleman in the corner.
‘Did you ever come across a chap named Logan?’ he asked.
Peter appeared thoughtful for a moment. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t say that I have.’
‘I know the Principal,’ said Mulcare. ‘He taught me once. But that was before he went to Cork at all. A most ambitious gentleman.’
‘You mean Brother Geraghty,’ said Peter.
‘That’s the man.’
The door opened, and Mr Fury came in. He sat down and looked at his son.
‘Where the hell did you put yourself, old man?’ asked Mr Mulcare.
‘Oh,’ he said quietly, ‘I met a chap in the passage there whom I haven’t seen for years. It’s funny, wherever I go I’m always bumping up against people whom I sailed with at one time or other.’ He began to play with his lad’s watch-chain. Now he pulled out the watch and said, ‘It’s getting late. I must go. I promised a friend of mine who is in hospital to go and see him.’
‘Have a short one?’ asked Mr Mulcare. It seemed this friend of his whom he was going to meet was a gentleman of great patience, for it was now nearly eight o’clock, and he had promised to meet his friend at a quarter past seven. Now Mr Fury reminded him of his obligation.
‘What about that friend of yours?’ he asked.
‘He’s all right! You’ll like him! Well – a short one? Don’t know when I shall see you again.’ He looked at Peter. ‘And this lad is going aboard my ship soon, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Peter. ‘Yes.’
‘I’ve had enough,’ said Mr Fury. ‘I must go, and I don’t know whether I shall get into that hospital at this hour, either.’
All three rose to their feet. The inebriated pair now focused their attention upon the trio moving away from the table.
‘Night!’ said the gentleman.
‘Hee … eee,’ the woman said.
‘That’s a bitch all right,’ remarked Mr Mulcare. They passed out into the street. They stood on the kerb talking for a few minutes.
‘I suppose you’ll go and see the fireworks on your way back,’ Mr Mulcare remarked. He began to settle his tie.
‘Fireworks? What fireworks?’
Mr Mulcare laughed and slapped Dennis Fury heartily on the back. ‘Why, they’re having fireworks every night in town,’ he said.
Well, he, Mr Fury, wasn’t interested in those kind of fireworks. He shook hands with Mr Mulcare. Peter shook hands.
‘So long now,’ said Mr Fury. ‘Take care of yourself.’
‘I’ll take care of myself,’ replied Mr Mulcare. ‘And I’ll be seeing you again soon, won’t I?’ The remark was obviously addressed to Peter.
‘Yes. This strike will soon be over,’ said the boy. He stood down off the kerb.
‘Good for you, prophet!’ said Mulcare. Then he waved his arm and was gone. Peter stood looking after him. Now his father pulled his arm.
‘Come along,’ he said. ‘That man would talk all night if one let him.’
They hurried down the road. After a long silence, Mr Fury exclaimed, ‘He’s a nice fellow, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. I like him,’ Peter said. He nearly added, ‘He knew Brother Geraghty,’ but saved himself in time. He didn’t want to go back to that subject. He only wanted to forget it. A bad chapter. He must wipe that from his mind.
‘He’ll look after you,’ continued Mr Fury. ‘He’s a good sailor. Knows his job. And above all, he is respectable. And anyhow,’ he added, looking Peter full in the face, ‘it’ll do you good. Every lad should do a couple of years at sea. Even those lads in the colleges.’
They turned into Lyons Street. Then they came to a halt. At the bottom of this street a crowd was gathered. Save for the sickly yellow light from two distant lamps, the street was shrouded in darkness. They moved on again. They could hear somebody shouting. They stopped again.
‘I was going to go through here,’ said Mr Fury, ‘it’s a short cut to the hospital. Now it seems we can’t.’ They were standing on the fringe of the crowd. Every door in Lyons Street was open. Men in their shirt-sleeves stood about on the doorsteps, whilst women leaned over their shoulders. They were listening to the harangue of a gentleman in the crowd.
‘Yes. That’s what they do. Shoot you down. Are you going to allow these people to shoot you down?’ The question seemed to be addressed not to the crowd gathered about him, but to the street and the streets beyond. His question was flung to the whole city. ‘Are you?’ he was shouting. Mr Fury and his son stood listening. Someone shouted ‘Specials!’ and the whole crowd seemed to sway. ‘Specials!’ the voice repeated. Peter looked up and down. ‘Specials.’ he was thinking. Then he went down before a wave of rushing bodies. The crowd had made a sudden rush up the street towards the main road. The Specials had worked their way up from the bottom. Peter struggled to his feet. His father was not there. He looked round, dazed – where had his father gone? Mr Fury had been pushed up the street by the crowd. Doors banged. Out of the darkness figures emerged. They carried batons, and on their right arms they wore blue armlets. One of these men came up to Peter. He raised his arm. The boy cried, ‘What’s the matter?’ He was frightened now. ‘Clear to hell out of it.’ the man cried. Peter stared at him. He was standing in the middle of the street. The street was a wilderness, all doors had closed. A moment ago i
t had teemed with life. There was something nightmarish about the sudden change. ‘Where am I?’ the boy was thinking. Then he ran. The man who had threatened to strike him now laughed. Peter had fled. At the top of the street he stopped for a moment to look down. There was nothing to see save the skulking figures in the darkness.
Peter was too bewildered to realize that the fireworks had already begun. He had only once ventured near the town. That was in broad daylight, when he had driven Mr Sweeney’s lorry to the North Market. He had cursed Father Moynihan then. The crowd had called him a scab. He walked slowly down the main road. Then he stopped and stood in the shelter of a shop door. His father must have got mixed up in the crowd. As he looked up and down the road, he saw crowds of people emerging from the many side streets. ‘Where are all these people going?’ thought the boy. Should he go home? It was useless looking for his father now. Suddenly he darted out of the doorway, and stopped a man hurrying towards town.
‘Can you tell me where the Manton Hospital is?’ he asked. The man, who stood over six feet in height and was almost as broad as he was long, now looked down at Peter, at the same time increasing his pace. Peter kept pace with him.
‘I was going there with my father, but I lost him in a crowd,’ said the boy. The man seemed not to hear. His eyes were fixed upon a crowd of people in the distance. This crowd was now turning towards Mile Hill.
‘Manton Hospital,’ said the man. ‘Oh! – I’m going your way. Step out.’
‘Thanks,’ said Peter. He buttoned his coat and began to swing his arms. This man could certainly walk fast. It was taking Peter all his time to keep up with him.
‘Got somebody in there?’ asked the man.
‘No,’ said Peter. ‘No one belonging to my family. Friend of my father’s.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said the man. He screwed his face up into a kind of monkeyish grimace.
‘Not bad case, is it?’
‘No,’ Peter said. ‘What a peculiar-looking man!’ thought the boy. He was dressed in a tail-coat, grey trousers, and wore elastic-sided boots. On his head he wore a deerstalker cap. He was without collar or tie, and his shirt was open at the neck. As they passed under a lamp, Peter saw his hairy chest, and also noticed that down the right side of his face the man had a long scar.
‘What is your name, anyway?’ asked the strange-looking man.
‘My name is Fury,’ replied Peter.
The man pulled up. He laid a heavy hand upon the boy’s shoulders. ‘Good!’ he said. ‘I’m Professor Titmouse.’ Peter laughed. But the man to his surprise did not return it. He frowned.
‘Don’t laugh!’ he said. ‘Please don’t laugh!’ They moved on again.
‘Am I walking in a dream?’ Peter began to ask himself as he stared at the man. They had reached the top of the hill, and were about to descend, when the man stopped.
‘You strike me as being a very irresponsible person,’ said Professor Titmouse. ‘I happen to be going to Manton Hospital too. I hope you will not carry it beyond the doors. I have a son there.’
As he said this, he drew a black rag from his pocket and wiped his eyes.
‘Oh!’ said Peter. ‘Forgive me. I’m sorry.’
‘Carry it beyond the doors!’ Peter was saying to himself. Carry what beyond the doors? His irresponsible spirit? What was the fellow talking about, at all? They were now catching up with the crowd. The man put the rag back in his pocket.
‘I hope your son is all right,’ said Peter. ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’
Professor Titmouse grimaced. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right. I’m a peculiar fellow. Yes. He’s all right. My son’s all right. He’s safe. Secure. Do you work in the city?’
‘No,’ said Peter. ‘I’m going to sea soon. I was at a college in Ireland.’
‘Oh! Dear me!’ The man’s figure seemed to shake, as though he had been overcome by emotion. He stopped again. ‘Life is strange,’ he said. Peter did not reply. He was lost in contemplation. Who was Professor Titmouse? Where had he come from? It took the boy all his time to prevent himself from laughing. Professor Titmouse reminded him of a Provincial Comedian.
‘I must rest a minute,’ said the professor. ‘Please wait for me.’ The man stepped into the shelter of an emporium. He sat down on the stone floor and stretched out his legs.
‘Sit down, my boy,’ he said, and Peter sat down beside him. The man’s face was lost to view. The darkness of the shelter had obliterated it. The boy could only hear his heavy breathing. ‘Yes, I have a son,’ said the professor. The black rag came out of his pocket once more. ‘Funny how we should meet. Both going to the same place. Dear me!’ He blew his nose with great vigour, an action that seemed to shake his whole body. The boy was feeling cold. The professor replaced the rag in his pocket. Peter felt the man’s hand on his shoulder again. ‘And now we must be off.’ He struggled to his feet. His deerstalker hat fell off. The boy picked it up and handed it to him. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Strange that you have never heard of me,’ he continued. ‘Everybody knows Professor Titmouse. Aye. Dear, dear!’ He sighed. ‘I was young like you once upon a time.’
‘Yes,’ Peter said. He was at a loss for words. ‘Yes.’
‘And I had ideals. But there, that is silly of me, to talk like that.’ And for the first time the man laughed. It was the most peculiar laugh that Peter had ever heard. It seemed to rise, a kind of dull roar, from the depths of his huge body, a full throaty laugh, almost like the croak of a frog. But it had been an effort. He now began to spit violently into the road, his mouth made the most fantastic movements. And he continued to expel mucous matter from his throat.
‘Ha ha! Ideals! Illusions, my boy. Illusions. I lost mine very quickly.’
Peter looked at the man as he spoke, noting the big teeth in the top part of his mouth. They reminded him of horses’ teeth. At the same time he was visualizing Mr Mulcare and hearing him say, ‘But one does not find one’s ideal behind the four walls of a college.’
It started up a train of thought in the boy’s mind, a train of thought that was not allowed to suffer interruption, for Professor Titmouse had once more fastened his eyes upon the heels of the crowd. He had forgotten the boy. His thoughts were taking flight again, winging far ahead of the crowd, far ahead of the city. Peter was getting tired of the rapid pace. To slacken down meant an impromptu departure. He began to wonder what time it was. As though the professor had divined his thoughts, he drew from his vest pocket a solid gold hunter attached to a piece of string. ‘Nine,’ he said. ‘Quite early yet. The rats never appear before half-past ten.’ Peter stared at the man. Was the fellow drunk, or was he a little light-headed? When he surveyed the figure and its fantastic dress he was rather inclined to the latter theory. The bottom of the hill was reached. They stood on the edge of the crowd. Professor Titmouse turned to the boy.
‘If you turn right, and cut across Dacre Road, then turn left at the bottom, you will come out into Elston Street. The hospital is there.’
‘But aren’t you going?’ asked Peter. ‘I thought you were going to see your son,’ he said. He put his hands in his pockets, and looked right into the professor’s eyes. The man must be mad.
‘You can go, or you can stay with me,’ remarked Professor Titmouse. ‘I do not think my son will be in too great a hurry to see me,’ he went on. For the third time the black rag came out of his capacious tail-pocket.
‘Oh!’ said Peter. ‘Oh! …’
‘Yes. I have a little business on hand.’
‘I’ll wait, if you like,’ said Peter, hardly knowing why he had said it.
‘It’s better for the dead to wait,’ said Professor Titmouse. ‘My son will be in no great hurry.’ He raised his hand and swung it in the air towards the crowd. ‘Look!’ he said. ‘The rats are coming out. The fun will soon begin. Excuse my habiliments,’ continued the professor. ‘I shall shortly change them.’ Suddenly a voice that seemed to come from the far corner of the Square cried out, ‘Kick his nose! Kick
his bloody nose!’
‘There!’ said the professor. ‘The fun has begun. And everything is free. Free!’ He grasped the boy’s arm, and with a strength that surprised the boy pushed him forward into the crowd.
3
‘Right through!’ said the professor. He bent down and spoke into Peter’s ear. It was almost a hiss.
‘If we get through here, we can make our way to the back of the Forester Hall. Then we can work our way into the lions. I always manage to get a good view from there.’ His grip tightened upon the boy’s arm. ‘Evidently,’ thought Peter, ‘this strange gentleman makes a hobby of it.’ An obstacle arose. A fractious group refused to move. The professor pleaded, cajoled, then finally swore. ‘Make way, please.’ A passage was made, if only for the satisfaction of seeing this strangely dressed figure pass. Everybody stared at Peter.
‘Brownie!’ shouted a voice. The professor swung round. ‘Pshaw! …’ As they pushed on, the lane seemed to grow longer. The boy was beginning to feel ashamed. He could feel the thousands of eyes upon him, and at times hands reached out, touching him. Once he felt a hand go into his pocket. At once he stopped, caught the hand, then struck out at the man. A scuffle ensued. Professor Titmouse was pulling hard. ‘Come! Let them amuse themselves,’ he said. ‘He was picking my pockets,’ shouted Peter angrily. He got no further; a huge man turned round, and driving his rump into Peter’s back, catapulted him headlong down the lane. Professor Titmouse swore.
‘Disgraceful! Another halt!’ It didn’t seem so easy after all. The lane closed up. Human bodies cemented themselves once more. At the north end of the Square rope barriers had been erected. In the middle of the road corporation water-carts had been lined up behind the ropes. The police were massed alongside the Castle Hotel, the railway station, and the Forum Theatre. This long line of authority shifted from end to end of the Square. Then it swerved off diagonally, fringing the Forester Hall. The setting reminded one of the overnight preparations for a public execution. But this was a new game. A waiting game. The tocsin had not yet sounded. Three times, between half-past five and seven o’clock, the police had charged the crowds. Now they seemed to be increasing. The authorities were perturbed at the sudden turn in the situation. It was not enough that the whole life of the city should be threatened by the sudden strike, but in the evening people began to congregate in the main streets. The suburbs supplied their quota. From north, south, east, and west the people came. The centre of the city had reached suffocating-point. These crowds had gathered for many reasons. They were there to protest against the butchery of the police on the previous Sunday, against the importing of foreign police. But it seemed that anger had been chiefly aroused by the arrival of a military force from the neighbouring barracks. The air itself was electric, charged with every sort of possibility. The authorities were taking no chances. Some in the crowd had come to loot, and others, like Professor Titmouse and Peter, had come to see the fun. It was fun to stand and watch the police, bored, angry, bursting to let loose, to fly among this mob and scatter them. Occasionally fusillades of bricks, bottles, stones were flung. ‘Butchers!’ the people shouted. ‘Swine! swine!’ The police stood still. Outside the railway station the horses of the mounted police stamped impatiently upon the stones. From over the river there came a biting icy wind. The mass of bodies seemed to draw closer together for warmth, for security, for moral strength. The police were patient. Their time would come. They were there to stop looting, to clear the streets. At half-past three in the afternoon the Riot Act had been read out. In a large room in a house situated in the south end of the city the industrial leaders were in conference, to deal with the situation. Mr John Williams had twice interviewed the chief constable. He had protested against Sunday’s sabotage, the breaking up of a peaceful meeting. Hundreds were in hospital. Individual acts of terrorism were taking place daily, day and night. The authorities held they were doing no more than their duty. Their sense of fear seemed greater than their sense of duty. There were not enough police to deal with the situation. The Government were apprehensive of unbridled licence. Orders were given for a detachment of Hussars to make immediate departure for the city.
