Strumpet City

by James Plunkett

  To Valerie

  CONTENTS

  Epigraph page

  Book One: 1907–1909

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Book Two: 1910–1912

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Book Three: 1910–1912

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Speaker: Shall we sit down together for a while? Here on the hillside, where we can look down on the city . . .

  Strumpet city in the sunset

  So old, so sick with memories

  Old Mother;

  Some they say are damned

  But you, I know, will walk the streets of Paradise

  Head high, and unashamed.

  The Old Lady Says ‘No’, Denis Johnston

  BOOK ONE

  1907–1909

  CHAPTER ONE

  At 3.15 a.m., with spectral quiet, His Majesty’s yacht Victoria and Albert approached the harbour mouth and lay to. And at half past six, with the first light, the workmen had finished. They looked with some pride on the result of their labours. The floral arch was ready for the disembarkation. It stood mute and beautiful at the harbour mouth, its green leaves stirring a little in the dawn breeze, its crimson and gold banner announcing the warm welcome of the citizens with the words,

  ‘Come Back To Erin

  God Bless Our King.’

  From the gardens by the shore and from the garlands entwined about railings and lamp-posts throughout the town of Kingstown the wind stole the sweet breath of thousands of flowers. It had been a tender July night, calm at sea, warm on shore. Now that dawn had come they could see the fluttering pennants of the battleships, the three-stringed bunting about the clubs on the waterfront, the greenery and flowers entwined about the masts of the private yachts, the crimson and gold banners overhanging the sides. In contrast, the landing stage was dressed in St. Patrick’s Blue and Cream.

  They went up through the town, under bunting and streamers, Japanese lanterns and fairy-lights, thousands of coloured gas-lamps. The workmen were tired. Their boots made an early-morning din. Their tongues were silent. They wanted their breakfasts.

  Mary peeped from her bedroom window and saw them pass. Then she looked down the street and felt a thrill of excitement. She hoped to have the day off, because Mrs. Bradshaw had said either she or Miss Gilchrist, the cook, could take a free day in honour of the occasion. Miss Gilchrist had said she would refuse. She had political views and did not approve of British royalty. Mary’s difficulty would be to contact Fitz and tell him. They could look at the procession to the Viceregal Lodge and perhaps visit the prison ship which was lying at Custom House Dock. The advertisements said it was one hundred and seventeen years old, with cells on it and lifelike wax figures of prisoners. Mary was not sure that she would care much for that. But if Fitz was with her she might chance the visit.

  She dressed quickly. She was not quite sure what shift Fitz was on, but she had left a note at the sweetshop to say that she would be off if Miss Gilchrist did not change her mind. They used the sweetshop as a post office. Fitz called out from the city when he was free and if there was no note he went off swimming at Seapoint. It had been hard to arrange meetings at first, because Fitz worked six twelve-hour shifts a week. Sometimes he was on night work and other times on day work. She had found it necessary to pretend that she had an aunt in the city in order to get out more frequently to see him. It was easy enough to deceive Mrs. Bradshaw about it. She was kind and prepared to be lenient if it helped Mary to make occasional visits, especially as Mary had said that the lady was old and delicate. She had not so far asked why Mary’s father, in his occasional letters about his daughter’s progress and welfare, had never mentioned the aunt, but the possibility that it might one day occur to her to do so had to be considered. The thought sometimes troubled Mary, but never for long. She was young, she was learning a job, she was happy to have swapped her father’s small farmhouse in County Cork for the luxury of serving in a large residence in the fashionable township of Kingstown. The Bradshaws were not demanding.

  Mary knocked at the door of the Bradshaws’ bedroom at seven o’clock. They wished to breakfast early and to view the proceedings from their window. She prepared the breakfast room and was drawing the curtains when the door handle turned and a gentle voice said:

  ‘Good morning, my dear.’

  It was Mrs. Bradshaw.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

  ‘Tell Cook to have the tea especially strong this morning. Mr. Bradshaw had a most restless night.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Mary said. As she turned, the light fell full on her face, so that Mrs. Bradshaw smiled and remarked:

  ‘You look very pretty this morning. And such a lovely colour in your cheeks. I expect it is the excitement.’

  Mary inclined her head modestly, letting her dark hair swing down against her cheeks.

  ‘Have you and Cook decided between you who is to have the day off?’

  ‘I think it’s me, ma’am.’

  ‘“I”, dear.’

  ‘I, ma’am,’

  Mrs. Bradshaw acknowledged the correction. She was a short, grey woman of about fifty. The one child of her marriage had died when he was three. Nature had refused to repeat the experiment, which was a great blow. But it had taught her what it was to suffer and it had given her patience and understanding in her dealings with others. She said:

  ‘I’m glad it’s you. You’re young and will enjoy it. Besides, you will probably find time to visit your aunt.’

  Mary coloured a little but Mrs. Bradshaw did not notice. She was peering through the window. Mary slipped out. Mrs. Bradshaw found that the sky was overcast. That was a pity. If it rained it would be such a disappointment to the Kingstown Decoration Committee.

  The kitchen had a large window to compensate for the fact that it was a little below the level of the garden. Miss Gilchrist, the cook, prepared two portions of fresh fruit while Mary waited. In addition there was a liberal dish of liver and bacon and eggs for Mr. Bradshaw, who had the habit of dining more heartily than his thinnish frame would lead one to suppose. For Mrs. Bradshaw, who had never taken meat on Wednesdays since the death of her child, there was toast to go with her lightly boiled egg.

  ‘She was asking again about which of us was taking the day,’ Mary said, while she waited.

  ‘I told you last night,’ Miss Gilchrist said, ‘I’ve more to do than stand gawking at King Edward.’

  ‘But are you sure?’

  ‘Or Queen Alexandra.’

  ‘The decorations are wonderful,’ Mary said. ‘I was looking down at them from the bedroom window.’

  ‘And you can tell herself that if she doesn’t know my feelings on the subject of King and Empire by this time she damn well ought to, seeing I’m over thirty years with her.’

  ‘I couldn’t very well say that to her,’ Mary said, laughing.

  ‘He’s not Ireland’s king, anyway’

  ‘What
difference does it make, whether he is nor not?’

  ‘You call yourself an Irishwoman, and you ask a question like that.’

  ‘Ah, it’s only a bit of excitement,’ Mary said, because she saw that Miss Gilchrist’s hands were trembling and her cheeks flushed with suppressed rage.

  ‘God be with my poor father and the brave Fenian brotherhood. There was men for you. Not like what’s going nowadays.’

  Taking the tray and trying to ignore the old woman’s anger, Mary said:

  ‘Don’t forget that they’ll be firing off the guns at eight o’clock. They make a terrible noise, I’m told.’

  Miss Gilchrist cocked her head as she squinted through the window at the overcast sky. With great satisfaction she said:

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I hope it brings the bloody rain down on them.’

  At breakfast Mr. Bradshaw betrayed his agitation several times by laying down his paper to consult his watch. He felt that the whole business of the visit was being overdone. He was not opposed in principle to honouring the royal visitors. As a retired civil servant he knew where his duties and his loyalty lay. He approved, for instance, of municipal decorations. In the paper he was trying to read, under the heading Kingstown Decoration Committee, the Chairman Arthur E. Mills, Esq., J.P., and the secretary M. A. Manning, Esq., Town Clerk, jointly acknowledged several subscriptions, including one of one guinea from R. A. Bradshaw, Esq. And, although neither he nor Mrs. Bradshaw would, for the life of them, venture that day into the crowded and confused streets, they had arranged to watch the procession from a window on the second floor, from which he had already hung a large banner with the words ‘God Save Our King’ picked out in gold letters. The evening would be marked by a special meal followed by an intimate musical party.

  But Mr. Bradshaw had to look at the arrangements in a dual capacity. In addition to being a retired civil servant and a substantial shareholder in a number of well-established companies, he was the owner of five houses in an alley very close to the harbour. A family occupied each room. What would happen to these five infirm shells of tottering brick and their swarms of poverty-stricken humanity when His Majesty’s Navy blasted off a battery of heavy guns Mr. Bradshaw trembled to think. The nearby railway line had already caused damage enough.

  ‘You’re not eating, my dear,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.

  ‘I keep thinking of this damned salute.’

  ‘I’m sure the houses will be quite safe.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence. Why can’t they blow bugles or something?’

  ‘I expect they’ll do that as well.’

  ‘Or pipe him ashore.’

  ‘I think that’s only for admirals.’

  ‘They have decorations, floral arches, addresses of welcome, military bands. I’m as loyal as the next, I hope, but surely to goodness that ought to be enough without the criminal waste of useful and probably expensive ammunition. It is vulgar, apart from anything else. What time is it?’

  ‘It must be almost eight.’

  Mr. Bradshaw consulted his watch again.

  ‘I make it five minutes to,’ he said, ‘but I may be fast.’

  ‘You must think of something else, something pleasant. We’ll have a lovely evening of music. Think forward to that.’

  ‘If all goes well in the meanwhile,’ Mr. Bradshaw said, in a tone which betrayed his grave doubt.

  ‘Young Father O’Connor is coming. He has a beautiful tenor voice.’

  ‘Too much wobble in it for my fancy,’ Mr. Bradshaw said, again consulting his watch.

  ‘And Mr. Yearling is bringing his ’cello. I’ll always remember the night you and Father O’Connor sang “The Moon Hath Raised”. Mr. Yearling extemporised beautifully by just looking at the piano score over my shoulder. I thought that very accomplished. It’s a great gift of his.’

  ‘He makes heavy inroads on my whiskey,’ Mr. Bradshaw said sourly, ‘that’s another great gift of his.’

  Mrs. Bradshaw knew it was useless to talk to him when he had anything on his mind; he simply refused to be cheered. He had always been like that, easily worried and plunged into gloomy humours. Not indeed that she herself looked forward to the noise. It was all very well for soldiers, or young people with strong nerves. Still, she was certain there was nothing whatever to worry about. She noted that his cup was empty and reached across for the teapot.

  ‘Tea?’ she asked gently.

  He put aside his paper and held out his cup.

  ‘Don’t quite fill it,’ he requested.

  She began to pour. Suddenly a thundering salvo shook the room. The windows rattled and the tableware danced. Mr. Bradshaw jumped and let his cup and saucer slip from his fingers. Mrs. Bradshaw, in her efforts to stifle a scream, continued to pour strong tea over the tablecloth for some seconds. The royal party were coming ashore. Mr. Bradshaw’s watch had not been fast. It was, in fact, three minutes slow.

  About an hour later the royal cortège left Kingstown. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, recovered from their upset, waved loyally from the upstairs window. Mary stood behind them, her heart beating with excitement. The procession moved into Crofton Road, turned into Monkstown and paused at Blackrock for yet another address of welcome. The King had been informed of Kingstown’s determination to supply small cottages for the labouring classes and gave the scheme his unqualified approval. The health and efficiency of the labourer depended to a great extent, he said, on a happy home life. He was much touched by their warm and generous welcome. Thousands lined the royal route. They waved flags and bantered good-humouredly with the police. It was the same all the way along Rock Road, Ailesbury Road and Donnybrook. At Morehampton Road, a series of Venetian masts had been erected on both sides of the broad central avenue which divided Herbert Park and the route leading from there to the central bandstand quivered under gay bunting. Slender flag-staves with suitable banners had been affixed to the ornamental light standards. There was a wealth of flowers and plants. A journalist, recording their Majesties’ arrival at the exhibition, observed that the people raised lusty cheers of loyal welcome. He noted something further, something which might be interpreted as a manifestation of Divine approval. Just as the Anthem was being played the clouds dispersed, the July sun blazed out, the watching thousands cheered afresh. There had been some doubt about the sky’s intentions. Now they smiled at one another in relief. ‘King’s weather,’ they remarked.

  At the speech of welcome there was a little incident which did not escape the attention of the onlookers. His Majesty, having replied, called for his sword. Lord Aberdeen spoke sotto voce to the organising chairman, Mr. Murphy. He was then obliged in turn to speak sotto voce to His Majesty, who moved on to other business with characteristic composure. A few astute onlookers tumbled to it that a knighthood had been refused.

  It was the second small cloud to trouble the minds of those who were responsible for the King’s content during his short stay. The man directly concerned was Sir Arthur Vicars, Ulster King-at-Arms and custodian of the jewelled Royal Order of St. Patrick. These had mysteriously disappeared from Dublin Castle only a few days before. They were valued at over £50,000. Worse still, they were the jewels worn on state visits by the reigning Monarch of England. The King would have to do without them. Mr. Birrell, the Chief Secretary, was openly of the opinion that the Chief Herald and Ulster King-at-Arms had stolen them himself. Social opinion was divided between those who endorsed his view and those who deplored his lack of restraint. Meanwhile the Treasury, in a practical frame of mind, offered £1,000 reward for information leading to the recovery. And the King, imperceptibly diminished in splendour, went, unbejewelled, to the Viceregal Lodge.

  Rashers Tierney rose that morning about the same time as King Edward. First the dog barked and then a hand reached down and shook his shoulder. It was very dark in the basement. The form above him could have been Death, or a ghost, or the hangover figure from a nightmare. Rashers was lying on straw. It was no cleaner than it could be in the damp
and dirt of the almost windowless cellar. Recognising the figure at last as that of Mrs. Bartley, he threw aside the nondescript rags which covered him. There was no need for any modest precautions. He was fully dressed.

  ‘I boiled you a can of water,’ Mrs. Bartley said, ‘you’ll want it for to make tea.’

  Rashers gurgled to dislodge the sleep phlegm from his throat and spat on the floor.

  ‘The blessings of God and His Holy Mother on you for the kind thought,’ he said.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Mrs. Bartley said. She looked around the hovel. It distressed her. She lived herself in the front parlour with her husband and five children. There were ten rooms in the house and ten families. Nobody regarded Rashers’ room as being in the house. It was under it. It cost him one shilling and threepence a week—when he could pay it.

  ‘Did you see me little flags,’ Rashers asked, stretching his hand behind his pillow and dragging out a board for Mrs. Bartley’s inspection. They were home-made favours with four ribbons apiece.

  ‘They’re gorgeous, Mr. Tierney,’ she said.