‘It says here there’s a thousand pounds reward for anyone who gives information or finds the Crown Jewels.’
Mulhall said:
‘Now we know why Rashers spends his days looking in dustbins.’
‘I’ll give you another bit of information to save you the trouble of reading it,’ Rashers said. ‘There’ll be no more paying in pubs.’
He found he had drawn the full attention of the company. Hennessy lowered the paper; Mulhall put down his drink; Fitz looked first at Rashers and then at Farrell. Farrell leaned across the table.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
Surprised at the interest he had aroused, Rashers explained.
‘The shipowners agreed with Larkin last night to bar the stevedores from paying the dockers in public houses.’
Everybody looked at Farrell.
‘You ought to slip down to the hall,’ Mulhall said.
‘I’d do it right away,’ Pat urged.
There was a great happiness in Mulhall’s face. He had not expected that the belief he expressed in Larkin would be so quickly justified. Farrell rose uncertainly.
‘If you’ll excuse me . . .’ he began.
He was torn between the importance of the news and the fact that he was proposing to leave before taking his turn to buy the company a drink.
‘Go on,’ Fitz urged, ‘don’t be standing on ceremony.’
Farrell went, and Rashers, staring after him and scratching his head, asked:
‘What the hell have I done on your friend?’
‘You’ve earned your pint, Rashers,’ Mulhall answered.
Fitz smiled. He, too, felt the stirring of a new, slightly incredulous hope.
Hennessy and Rashers were the last to leave. They were both unsteady. At Chandlers Court Rashers sat down on the wet steps, cleared his throat and began to sing. Hennessy remembered his wife.
‘For God’s sake—stop it,’ he appealed.
‘All right,’ Rashers agreed, ‘but sit down beside me and we’ll have a chat.’
‘I daren’t—not with this rheumatism.’
‘I’ve offered you the cure.’
‘I’m not giving you tuppence. I’ve spent more than enough already.’
‘Please yourself. There’s many a carter will be glad to get a good ’cello string for tuppence.’ A thought struck Rashers.
‘Who was the young fellow that was with us?’
‘The dark young fellow?’
‘Certainly,’ Rashers said.
‘Fitzpatrick. He’s thinking of tying the knot.’
‘Ah. Getting married. It’s a contagious notion between two opposites.’
‘He works in the foundry.’
‘He stood me a pint, so God give him luck.’
‘And do you know where he hopes to live?’
‘Tell me.’
Hennessy jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the hall of 3 Chandlers Court. Rashers looked unbelieving.
‘No,’ he challenged.
‘When the Kennys move out.’
This was news to Rashers.
‘They’re off to America in a fortnight. I’d like to go myself.’ Another thought struck him.
‘Suppose you found the Crown Jewels or something—would you go to America?’
‘I’d often a wish to go to France.’
‘The French have a queer way of living,’ Rashers said. ‘Very immoral, by all accounts.’
‘I’d like to see the vineyards.’
‘Isn’t porter good enough for you?’
‘It’s the grapes. Lovely green clusters.’
‘Some of them is black.’
‘Did you ever taste grapes?’
‘Every morning at breakfast,’ Rashers said, putting on a grand accent, ‘and twice of a Sunday.’
‘Grapes is the loveliest things you ever tasted,’ Hennessy said.
‘Wasn’t I reared on them,’ Rashers insisted.
‘I worked on a job in a kitchen in Merrion Square,’ Hennessy explained, ‘and the oul wan there was never done eating grapes. For a fortnight I had grapes every day because I used to lift a few off the table. I’ve always had a wish for grapes since then.’
‘Were they black or green?’
‘Black.’
‘Them is for invalids,’ Rashers said, knowledgeably.
‘I’d better go up,’ Hennessy said.
But Rashers was in a mood for conversation.
‘Sit down, can’t you,’ he appealed.
‘I wouldn’t risk it. The pain in me back is desperate.’
Rashers fumbled under his coat and took out the ’cello string. He screwed up his face until the beard covered it completely and said in sudden love of all mankind:
‘Here, you can have it.’
‘I couldn’t take it,’ Hennessy said.
‘Amn’t I offering it to you for nothing.’
‘No. I couldn’t deprive you.’
Rashers cursed violently.
‘You’re a contrairy bloody man,’ he shouted. ‘I proffered it to you for tuppence and you wouldn’t venture the money. Then I offer it to you for nothing, for the sake of neighbourliness and friendship, and begod, you say you couldn’t take it. Have you rheumatism at all?’
Hennessy looked behind nervously.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he pleaded.
If you didn’t eat so many bloody grapes,’ Rashers said loudly, ‘you wouldn’t have rheumatism.’
Hennessy panicked and said:
‘All right. I’ll sit down to please you.’
The steps felt wet. After a while Hennessy shivered and drew his coat about him with his hands. They sat talking in low voices, Hennessy to sober up a little before facing his wife, Rashers because it was hardly less comfortable than his room and had the advantage of company of a kind. The dog sat with them too, its head turning from one side to the other as occasional footsteps approached and passed.
‘The first thing you’d do if you found the Crown Jewels is buy grapes, isn’t that right?’ Rashers asked.
‘And go to France,’ Hennessy agreed.
‘The first thing I’d do is buy a tin whistle,’ Rashers said, ‘and stay where I bloody well am and play it.’
The belligerent note disappeared. His voice became gloomy. ‘And it’s not a lot to ask for, is it?’ he added. They were silent. Then Rashers looked up into the rain at the darkness of the sky.
‘Do you think Jesus Christ is up there?’ he asked.
‘And His blessed Mother,’ Hennessy affirmed, touching his hat.
‘Can he see us?’
‘That’s what the Penny Catechism says.’
‘Through the rain?’
‘I don’t think the rain makes any difference.’
They rose and faced the hallway. Above their heads all the windows, spaced out evenly in the flat face of the tenement, showed their late lamps. As they moved forward the dog stiffened and barked. They looked around. A tall figure approached, paused to pet the dog and said:
‘Good night, men.’
Each said good night in turn. The man passed on. Hennessy, his magpie eyes alight with information once again, gazed after the retreating figure. Then he turned to Rashers.
‘Do you know who that was?’
‘He was polite, anyway,’ Rashers said, pleased about the dog.
‘It was Jim Larkin,’ Hennessy said, delighted that he had so easily identified someone who was becoming the talk of Dublin.
CHAPTER SIX
The city faced the winter as best it could. It had its days of good weather, the freakish out-of-season days that always came to surprise it, as though a piece of summer had fallen from heaven out of its turn, days when the gulls looked whiter and the river wore a blue, chilled sparkle.
It was on such a day that Fitz took Mary to view the flat in Chandlers Court. He was uncertain how she would take it. She had hoped so much for a place of their own. But she realised it was best to make definite plans as soon
as possible. Her own small capital was almost exhausted.
The hallway, even on so good a morning, looked grim enough. The staircase and the worn steps sagged and creaked as they climbed. But the rooms themselves were better. A large window overlooking the street gave glimpses of the mountains, now blue and bare, and admitted plenty of sunlight. Children at play in the street made sounds that were happy and tolerably distant. The large fireplace, with its marble surround left over from better days, gave plenty of room for cooking. A bedroom and a kitchenette completed the flat which, at four shillings and threepence a week was dearer, but then bigger, than average. The Kennys would be leaving in a week. When they reached the street again Mary said:
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘It suits me.’
She tightened her arm on his and said: ‘It’s a nice room but I wonder about the house.’
‘The people across the landing are all right.’
‘And above?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
Mary considered. Then she said: ‘Let’s take it, Fitz.’
‘Good,’ he said, ‘we’ll take it next week.’
‘How can we do that?’
‘I can move in with Pat,’ Fitz said.
‘Won’t he mind?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s a bit dearer, but he isn’t happy about the place we’re in.’
Joe Somerville was with Pat when Fitz made the suggestion. Pat had lit the fire and was drying a pair of drawers.
‘It’s a dearer room,’ Fitz said, ‘but I’ll stand the extra.’
‘Why don’t you move in with the girl right away?’ Pat asked.
Fitz smiled and said: ‘Some people regard that as immoral.’
‘It wouldn’t deter me,’ Pat said.
‘We all know your tastes in the matter,’ Joe said sourly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Down in Mabbot Street with Lily Maxwell.’
‘It isn’t in Mabbot Street.’
‘Then wherever it is. Fitz thinks more of himself than that.’
‘I don’t see what’s wrong with Lily Maxwell.’
‘Visiting the kip shops,’ Joe said, ‘when you get a skinful.’
‘It’s a very natural class of an occupation.’
‘It’s not Christian,’ Joe said.
‘I’ve never laid claim to being a Christian,’ Pat said, in a reasonable tone.
The steam from the drawers rose about his wrists and face and upwards towards the oil lamp on the box beside him.
‘You’ll crack the funnel of the lamp!’ Joe shouted.
He was low-sized and squat and worked for Nolan & Keyes with Pat. Pat moved the lamp back.
‘As a socialist,’ he explained, ‘I don’t regard marriage as necessary.’
‘The union of decent Christians has to be blessed by a priest,’ Joe insisted.
‘Who blessed the union of Adam and Eve, then?’ Pat asked. ‘Don’t tell me there was a priest.’
‘God did.’
‘Very well,’ Pat said, ‘let Fitz ask God to bless the union and go ahead. It won’t do any harm, and he’ll save a few bob.’
‘It was all right for Adam and Eve,’ Joe said, ‘but now the Church has the sacrament of marriage.’
‘A class of modern convenience,’ Pat said, ‘like the electric tram. If you want to know, it was the capitalists who invented marriage in order to protect the laws of inheritance.’
‘You’re too bitter altogether against religion,’ Joe said.
‘Maybe you’d have me like Keever, asking the office clerk to give him the stamps to save for the black babies.’
‘I suppose if he was collecting stamps for Karl Marx he’d be a hero,’ Joe snarled.
‘I’d be satisfied for a start if he began paying his subscription to the union.’
‘He’s only trying to help the missionaries.’
‘The missionaries do more harm than good.’
Exasperated, Joe appealed to Fitz.
‘There’s not a charitable drop in him,’ he accused.
‘Charity begins with my own class,’ Pat insisted.
‘And isn’t Keever your own class?’ Joe shouted.
‘No,’ Pat shouted back. ‘Because he’s against us. He that is not with me is against me.’
‘Now he has the bloody nerve to quote the Bible at me,’ Joe protested.
Fitz said: ‘For God’s sake stop talking like a pair of public meetings.’
They both glared at each other in silence.
‘I’m getting married at Easter,’ Fitz said, ‘and I’m asking if you’ll move in with me so that I can hold on to the flat when it’s left empty. If you don’t want to do that, say so.’
‘Of course I’ll move in with you,’ Pat said, ‘if you haven’t got the courage to go against the institutions of capitalist society.’
‘I haven’t. Does that satisfy you?’
‘It doesn’t,’ Pat said, ‘but I’ll have to put up with it, I suppose.’
He felt the drawers and judged them to be dried out enough to hang on a line that stretched from the bedpost to the corner of the fireplace. He drew the legs down so that they hung at full length.
‘They’re nearly as holy as Keever himself,’ he remarked.
Joe opened his mouth but had to close it again. He could think of nothing to say.
Winter took a heavy toll of life in the parish of St. Brigid, where the old succumbed to the usual diseases. Parish duties kept Father O’Connor busy. People asked for the priest, were anointed, and left the overcrowded rooms for whatever place God and their way of living had prepared for them. He found the dirt and the poverty hard to get used to. Even the room he slept in joined forces with the weather and fell in league with the district that surrounded it. There were damp spots on the wall and damp patches on the painting of Our Lady of Sorrows. When the window was open the noise of trains and traffic was unbearable; when it was closed the room became musty and unpleasant. The iron-framed bed was a double one, unpriestly and lonely. Father Giffley continued to be boorish and unfriendly.
‘A charitable society,’ he repeated, ‘I am more interested in your finding me another boilerman.’
The boilerman who had tended the unreliable contraption which heated the water system for the church, had been one of the winter’s victims. His body was due to arrive at the church that evening.
Father O’Connor said: ‘I have been enquiring about a deserving case.’
‘You want a charitable society,’ Father Giffley said with a snort, ‘yet you are unable to find a deserving case.’
‘The poor man is only dead two days.’
‘Throw a stone from any window in the parish of St. Brigid. You’re bound to hit a hungry wretch.’
‘He must be trustworthy.’
‘For ten shillings a week—impossible.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Father O’Connor submitted. If his superior did his share of the duties there might be more time to attend to the matter he was complaining of. Father O’Connor resisted the temptation to say so.
‘Hanlon was a gentle poor old dodderer,’ Father Giffley brooded.
‘His chest was bad, I understand.’
‘He didn’t die of a surfeit of piety, anyway, the poor soul.’
‘His language was sometimes objectionable.’
Father Giffley was surprisingly tolerant. ‘It’s their physic against ill health,’ he said. ‘As for charitable societies—charity in this parish must remain the monopoly of the Protestants. They have the money. We haven’t.’
‘We lost a family to them last week,’ Father O’Connor said, using an argument that Father Giffley, he felt certain, could not dare to ignore. But his superior took it as a necessary part of the pattern.
‘A bowl of soup, a hot bath—and then they wash them in the Blood of the Lamb,’ he said. ‘Do you know, I’ve heard them singing in the streets a thing that goes: “Yes, we shall gather at the River”. Gro
wn adults warbling about gathering at the river is beyond me.’
‘I think the river is figurative, representing the flow of grace . . .’
Father Giffley sat upright.
‘Do I need explanations of what is obvious and elementary?’ He left down his whiskey glass.
‘What family has apostasised?’
The word startled Father O’Connor. It fell into the room with an evil and terrible sound.
‘People named Conlan. Keever, one of my confraternity men, told me. I’ve tried to trace them but they seem to have moved into another parish.’
‘They always do,’ Father Giffley said.
‘It happens often, then . . . ?’
‘No, not often. Our parishioners keep the Faith. It is the only thing most of them have.’
‘That is why I am anxious to start some kind of relief fund.’
‘Without money?’
‘The ladies of the parish . . .’
‘There are no ladies in the parish of St. Brigid; except, of course, a few ladies of light virtue. And even they find it difficult to live.’
‘I was going to say—the ladies of the parish of Kingstown. Some of them are very interested.’
‘Have you asked them?’
‘I have described the conditions here. They seemed anxious to help.’
Father Giffley looked at the young man for some time, his eyes reflective, his cheeks veined and swollen. He hated the fair hair and pale, unlined face. He hated the humble manner and the bowed head, the zeal for good works which he was convinced was an outlet for a strange form of snobbery. Father Giffley, while his junior waited patiently for a decision, let his mind wander through the parish he had spent so many lonely years in. He hated it too, and made no effort to do otherwise. In his own way he pitied the people. He had no contempt for them. It was not their fault that they were born into poverty or that the rooms they inhabited were overcrowded. The filth they lived in was unavoidable. And this self-centred young fool wanted to scratch at the surface.
Father Giffley said:
‘Some form of relief fund? Very well. You have my permission, Father.’
He held up his glass and regarded it through half-closed eyes. There would be words of gratitude.
‘I am deeply grateful, Father.’
That was the phrase Father Giffley had anticipated. He smiled at his glass, as though it, too, had guessed aright.
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