He was among the cottages now. He looked out for street names. There was a lamp at each corner, but the name plates were hard to make out in the driving rain. He knocked at several doors for directions and went down street after street where cottages huddled under the downpour and overfull gutters splashed noisily. At last, in a cul-de-sac that the wall of the railway line sealed off, he found the house. Keever himself answered the door. Mulhall recognised him. He gripped him by the lapels and dragged him quickly into the street.
‘I want you,’ he said.
The cottage door, caught by the wind, moved slowly, gathered pace, closed with a loud bang.
‘Mulhall.’
‘You’re a scab, Keever.’
‘Let me go.’
‘Not until I show you and every other scab in this town what happens to strike-breakers.’
‘I’m breaking no strike. Let me go.’
They were against the railway wall. High, featureless, blackened with soot and rain, it rose above both of them. Keever braced himself against it.
‘You’re using charity parcels to break a strike.’
‘I’m serving the poor.’
‘You’re a liar. You’re selling them.’
Keever twisted but failed to free himself.
‘You’ll do six months’ hard if you touch me.’
‘Gladly,’ Mulhall said.
Keever pushed forward. Mulhall gave ground, then swung hard and connected. He dragged Keever to his feet again. They struggled together until Mulhall landed again. Then he began to beat up Keever, on the body, on the head, until Keever lay against the railway wall, rain and blood mixing together on his swollen face. He fixed Mulhall with eyes that were only half open. He struggled for breath.
‘Six months,’ he said.
Mulhall turned and left him. Halfway up the street he heard a door opening and a woman’s voice calling. Then he heard the woman scream out. He continued to walk at the same pace. He reached the corner, turned it, continued his deliberate stride.
In the morning the police came for him. They hammered on the door while he and his son were getting ready for work. They entered without ceremony.
‘I’ll go with you,’ he said.
Mrs. Mulhall sat on the bed. She was crying. His son looked on but said nothing.
‘Who’s this?’ the police said.
‘My son. He’s a messenger in the Independent.’
‘Where was he last night?’
‘In his bed. He’d nothing to do with it.’
They accepted that. Mulhall walked between them down the stairs and out on to the street. The sky was still dark, but the early-morning lamps shone out from windows above and about them.
‘You’ll be locked up for this,’ one of the policemen told him.
‘I’m not the first,’ Mulhall said, ‘and I won’t be the last.’
The lighted windows above and about him filled him with tenderness and smouldering anger. He was God and all his creatures were in bondage. He had been cruel, as God often seemed to be. But he had served them. When he came back he would serve them again. That was what his birth had been for. It was a good thing, in middle age, after years of despondency and search, to know why he had been born. He did not mind walking up the street, his arms pinioned by police; he would not mind the stares of the city as he was being dragged for trial. It did not matter, because he was entirely certain now about everything, about who he was and what God had made him for.
The justice said it was a disgraceful charge. He had beaten a man whose only sin was to work in Christian charity for the welfare of others. He had insulted, by his conduct, the person of a priest. His conduct was an example of what could be expected in the future from an anarchical movement, if decisive steps were not taken to suppress it. Mulhall said nothing in defence. He was sentenced, as Keever had predicted, to six months’ imprisonment with hard labour.
Father O’Connor mounted the steps to the pulpit and looked at the congregation for some moments with unusual gravity. He had already assisted Father Giffley with the distribution of holy communion, because it was the monthly mass of the men’s sodality and there were many communicants. Behind him Father Giffley sat to the side of the altar, his biretta on his head, his hands resting palms downwards on each knee, his head slightly bowed. Father O’Connor read the notices and the names of those who had died recently or whose anniversaries occurred. Then he signed himself in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost and began to speak.
‘My dear brethren: For some time I have had it in mind to talk to you on a subject which has been a source of ever-increasing distress, not only to me, but to those in Holy Orders who are far above me in holiness, in wisdom, in experience. I might have continued to hesitate in the hope—indeed, in the confident belief—that the advice of your priests would triumph over the promptings of evil men. I refer to those who have been working among you for some years now to spread discontent and a godless creed.’
He stopped to assess their measure of attention. It was not great. The hour was early, they had come without breakfast to receive holy communion, the church was damp and unusually cold. The odour of tightly packed bodies made the air unpleasant. Throughout mass someone had been coughing persistently. It began again now in the silence. A chorus of coughs and snuffles responded. Father O’Connor found it necessary to raise his voice.
‘Our hopes have not been fulfilled and our advice has gone unheeded. Only a few days ago, in this parish of ours, a good and conscientious man suffered a brutal assault.’
The coughing stopped. He had their attention.
‘The hand of the law has reached out to the perpetrator of this outrage; he is now paying the penalty. With him—we need not concern ourselves any further. But what must concern us very deeply indeed is the reason given for the attack I have just mentioned. The reason put forward was that the unfortunate victim was attempting to interfere against a strike engineered by professional exploiters of discontent. The allegation, of course, was not true. The man was simply performing a Christian duty, distributing charity in Christ’s name, offering a little relief to the destitute. But the incident serves well to illustrate the attitude of these self-styled Reformers towards any activity of religion. It shows their hatred of it, their anger at it, their determination to oppose the work of God at any cost and in any shape or form.’
That rang effectively. He paused, but it was spoiled again by the long rasping coughs of one man. Before the rest began unconsciously to join him, Father O’Connor spoke.
‘It is a wet morning, my dear brethren, you have risen early to fulfil your duty to God, I will not detain you now by speaking at length on this subject. I only ask you to keep it in mind for what it is—an insult to God and an insult to those who were ordained to preach His gospel. When next these men urge you to extreme courses, when they try to win your support and your confidence, when they declare—as they have done—that they respect religion and seek only the order that is God’s—when they do this recall the incident I have referred to, and the many others that have occurred throughout our city. You will know then where they really stand. You will be able to see that for all their fair words and protestations of concern for poverty and hunger, they are enemies of God and of His Church. In that way you will keep to Truth. And you will ensure that no more unfortunate victims will suffer physical assault at the hands of God’s enemies.’
That seemed to be enough. Father O’Connor allowed his eyes to rest steadily on the upturned faces for some seconds. Then he signed himself very deliberately, saying again: ‘In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’
They answered ‘Amen’.
Rashers got up to leave as Father O’Connor did. The cough phlegm in his throat thickened and refused to be dislodged. He struggled so hard for breath that he almost fell. A neighbour grasped him by the shoulders and led him outside. Rashers nodded his thanks, then leaned against the arch of the porch on
his own. The rain clung to his unkempt beard but the air was cool and moist and easier to breathe. He gulped at it until he felt its cold bulk on his lungs. He rested, coaxing his heart to find a slow, regular beat. Soon mass would be over, the people would come crowding about him. They would look at him, some of them with pity. That was something he never sought and did not like. If he had a drop of whiskey it might do the trick, straighten him out for the job of stoking the furnace which he had been unable to tackle early that morning. As the first trickle of the congregation began to move about him, he stirred himself and decided that he must ask the housekeeper. She was a kind enough woman.
He managed to get as far as the basement door. While she was opening it another spasm seized him. She found him doubled up and breathless. He stopped, his eyes streaming, unable to ask her. She took his arm and led him into the kitchen. It was spick and span. The red gleam of the fire behind the range reminded him that the furnace would go out if he did not get well quickly enough to attend to it. As it was, the pipes were almost cold. He made a tremendous effort.
‘For the love of God, woman, spare me a thimble of whiskey.’
‘Sit down,’ she said, helping him. He looked about him and recognised the press it was usually kept in. He saw her opening it. When she came back she poured him a stiff measure. He took it slowly, coughing and spluttering over it at first, but becoming easier after a while, until at last he felt he could talk to her.
‘God reward you,’ he offered.
‘I’ll give you a cup of tea.’
‘No, no. The whiskey did the trick. It always does.’
‘The tea will cap it,’ she said.
She prepared it and with it he took some bread and butter. He felt warmer and better after it. Drowsy, too. He had slept very brokenly the night before.
‘I’ll go now and attend the furnace.’
‘You’re a man that shouldn’t be out at all,’ she warned him. Even now his face was a deadly colour. She wondered should she tell Father Giffley.
‘If Rashers stays out, the furnace is out too.’
‘What matter about the furnace.’
‘Am I to let it out and lose my job.’
‘You’re in no condition to be abroad.’
‘It’s only a little turn,’ Rashers said. ‘I’m right as rain now.’
He got up with difficulty and went to the door. It was a pity to have to leave the warm, dry air of the kitchen. It would have been good to curl up and sleep on its flagged floor. He had slept on less comfortable beds.
‘Wait now,’ she called to him.
She put the cork back in the bottle, which was still almost half full of whiskey, and gave it to him.
‘Put it under your coat,’ she warned him.
He looked at it doubtfully.
‘They’ll surely miss it.’
‘Divil the miss.’
‘You’re a good-hearted woman.’
‘I’ll not have your death on my conscience, and that will be the story if you don’t watch yourself.’
Rashers held up the bottle and measured it with his eye.
‘If I die it’ll be of free drink,’ he said. It was an effort. He did not feel in the mood to joke.
The rain had found its way under the broken door and down the first two steps of the boiler house. Beyond that it was dry and dark. He groped for the candle butt, lit it and opened the furnace gate. A thick white ash was all that remained of the coke-dressing, he had spread the previous night. He raked it gently, bringing the live coke to the surface. He threw a shovel full of fresh coke to the back of the furnace. The white ash, disturbed, burst upwards in a dense cloud and flowed into the furnace room. In the light of the candle, against the background darkness, countless white particles began to dance and jostle. Rashers breathed deeply as he lifted the shovel a second time. The dust caught him at the back of the throat and the muscles of his chest convulsed. He threw the spade aside, knelt suddenly on the coke and began another fight for air that seemed endless and doomed to defeat. But it passed. He lay down trembling. There was sweat on his face and under his clothes. Everything had withdrawn to a great distance. The candle flame was a luminous petal which shed no light at all. He remembered the whiskey and drank. The cork fell when he fumbled as he tried to replace it. He drank again, a long slug, for comfort this time, not for medicine. It felt better. With his eyes closed and lying still, it was possible to think a little. If it was Edward VII he would be surrounded by doctors. It did no good, in the heel of the hunt. Maybe a high-up like him wouldn’t chance a drop of whiskey. Champagne or a high-class foreign wine. That was their dish. Rashers slugged again at the bottle and burrowed deeper into the coke stack. Drowsiness crept over him, a murmur in his ears and in his limbs. He dozed while the furnace shared the misfortune of many another in St. Brigid’s and starved to death.
The church suffered. At afternoon devotions, during the recitation of the rosary, the cold and damp penetrated Father Giffley to the bone. On his way into the vestry he touched the pipes with his hand and confirmed his suspicions. In the house he summoned Father O’Connor.
‘Have we a boilerman?’
‘Of course.’
‘The heating system contradicts it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The church is like an icebox.’
‘I’ll see what is wrong.’
‘You should have done that four or five hours ago.’
Father Giffley went to the press, groped in it and took out a bottle. He half filled a glass.
‘I’m petrified,’ he grumbled.
Father O’Connor, with sinking heart, saw him take it over to the fireside chair where he swallowed most of it with the first mouthful.
‘I’ll find out what has happened,’ he promised.
The courtyard was dark and rain was still falling. He turned up his collar. The image of Father Giffley raising the yellow liquid and swallowing remained vividly with him. It had been so long since that had happened. Was it about to start again: the whiskey after breakfast, the inflamed afternoon face, the sickly and perpetual odour of peppermints? There would come a time when Father Giffley’s weakness could no longer be ignored.
He reached the boiler house and pushed in the broken door. It was pitch dark. Stale coke fumes hung unpleasantly in the cold air. The sound of heavy breathing came from the darkness. It startled him. He called out.
‘Tierney.’
The breathing continued, its rhythm uninterrupted. He picked his way gingerly down the remaining steps, struck a match and found a stump of candle. Beside it the earlier one had guttered to death. Its grease dribbles clung to the ledge and spread in knuckled streams down the side of the wall.
‘Tierney,’ Father O’Connor called again.
He held the candle above the sleeping figure and bent down. The sight horrified him. Rashers’ mouth had fallen open. The teeth in it were yellow and rose crookedly from the narrow gums. The empty whiskey bottle was in his right hand. He had been incontinent in his sleep. Father O’Connor recoiled from the strong smell of urine. He prodded Rashers with his foot.
‘Tierney,’ he called.
He was tempted to kick at the prostrate horror. Was the whole of Ireland possessed by Drink; had it become an unwashed wretch on a slag-heap, grasping an empty bottle by the neck? What right had any creature to spurn God’s gifts of mind and health in this way, to put out God’s sun—quench His stars and obliterate the lovely face of His Creation. Father O’Connor felt fury blazing in the arteries of neck and temple.
‘Tierney!’ he roared.
Rashers opened his eyes and identified his visitor.
‘It’s yourself, Father.’
‘Get on your feet.’
‘All in good time, Father.’
Rashers spoke soothingly. It was all very well to say get on your feet. It was another thing to have complete confidence in their ability to obey.
‘The furnace is out.’
‘Bloody end to it
,’ Rashers said. Then he recollected himself and apologised.
‘Saving your presence, Father.’
‘You’re a drunken disgrace,’ Father O’Connor exploded at him. Rashers looked puzzled. He thought. He became conscious of the empty bottle about which his fingers were still curled.
‘A drop for my chest,’ he said.
‘A good deal more than a drop. The furnace has been out all day. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘First it was contrary with me. Then I went up to mass. Then I got a little turn. The chest . . .’
‘Do you buy and consume a bottle of whiskey every time you have trouble with your chest?’
‘I didn’t buy it.’
‘You stole it, then.’
Rashers made an effort and raised himself on one elbow. In the candlelight, with the black beard merging into the background of piled coke, he was little more than a pair of eyes. They were suddenly focused and scornful.
‘That’s a strange conclusion for a man of your cloth to jump to.’
‘Who gave it to you?’
Rashers, with both elbows under him now, found his full voice and shouted his anger: ‘Ask my arse.’
‘How dare you use obscenity in my presence!’
‘I never asked for your presence,’ Rashers yelled. ‘So bad cess to you and to hell with you and God’s curse on you for labelling me a robber. Now get to hell out of here.’
He scrabbled at the coke about him and flung a fistful in Father O’Connor’s direction. Father O’Connor dodged backwards. Some pieces hit the skirts of his soutane and fell harmlessly to the floor. The attack astounded him. He stood wordlessly, the candle held above his head. They faced each other with hatred. Rashers made a final effort and found his feet. He pulled his clothes down about him. He continued to hold the empty bottle by the neck.
‘Tomorrow,’ Father O’Connor said, controlling his voice, ‘the clerk will have whatever wages is due to you. You’re dismissed.’
Strumpet City Page 27
