Strumpet City

CHAPTER TWO

In October, whenever he walked along the Vico Road, the hills rising at the back of the city reminded Yearling of Connemara. They were turning brown now under evenings of long, yellow sunsets. Often the green sea below him set him thinking of the miles and miles of water and waste; of England; of the too-faraway years of youth. One day, when Father O’Connor strolled with him, he said: ‘I am getting old.’

He stopped to lean for a moment on his cane. It was growing dusk. The sea had a strong, autumn smell. The air was damp.

‘Everybody does,’ Father O’Connor said, agreeably.

‘I begin to think that times are changing, that soon the world we knew will be finished and done with.’

‘There are new ideas,’ Father O’Connor admitted, ‘disturbing ideas, abroad. I feel it too and I’m younger than you are.’

‘And I begin to look back—to remember; that’s a bad sign.’ He knitted his heavy eyebrows and looked sharply at Father O’Connor.

‘Do you think I should have married?’ he asked.

‘There’s still time.’

‘I don’t think so—ah no.’

He sighed and began to walk again.

‘Still,’ he said, after a while, ‘celibacy was never suited to me. I don’t understand how you fellows manage.’

‘We win it by our own means. For some it is easy; for others—it is painfully hard.’

‘Is it the same with drink?’

‘You are confusing what is sinful and what may only be unseemly.’

‘Yes,’ Yearling admitted, ‘you are more broadminded about drink than our crowd. Still, I was jilted for drinking—did I ever tell you that? She was a Catholic too.’

‘Once, when we were playing music with Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, you hinted at something. It happened in England, I think?’

‘A long, long time ago. The sea there reminded me of it. I must tell you about it some time.’

‘If you are unhappy at times there are other ways of considering life. There may be a plan, or a reason . . .’

Yearling looked at him sharply.

‘Are you thinking of trying to convert me?’

Father O’Connor did not return the look. But he said: ‘If I thought I could I would not hesitate.’

‘And do you?’

‘It is God who converts . . . not bunglers such as I am.’

A little later Father O’Connor said: ‘When I spoke of drink as being unseemly I didn’t mean that it could not be sinful. It can. I’ve seen it become sinful and I’ve seen it lead to much human tragedy.’ He spoke generally. But he was thinking of Father Giffley.

October brought work for Rashers once again. He piled paper on the cold bars of the furnace, spread sticks and a dressing of coke. Then he lit the first fire of another season, building it to give a slow heat which he could control. For the first week it required attention at night-time, so he decided to sleep in the boiler house. On the Saturday night, when there was a corpse in the mortuary chapel above, he brought the dog and played music on the flageolet to keep himself company. The dog was a mistake. In the morning, when Father Giffley passed near the entrance, it gave a warning bark.

‘In the first week of the season I have to sleep here at night, Father,’ he said. ‘I keep a slow fire so as not to do damage to the pipes.’

‘And is the . . . dog . . . very useful?’

‘In the matter of company, Father.’

‘St. Francis and yourself would get on well together, I can see that.’

Father Giffley peered into the corners beyond the ring of candlelight. They were grimed with dust. The cobwebs looked solid.

‘Do you sleep on the coke?’

‘With a sack underneath.’

‘And it is comfortable?’

‘It could be worse.’

Father Giffley noted the familiar phrase. Everything could be worse.

‘It could, indeed.’

‘Only I noticed it’s inclined to bring on the bronchitis.’

‘That would be the dust,’ Father Giffley said.

‘I hope you don’t think bad of me bringing the dog, Father.’

‘We could deduct something for its board and lodging,’ Father Giffley suggested, smiling to himself. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Rusty, Father.’

Father Giffley bent down to the dog and said: ‘Here, Rusty, that’s the fellow, that’s the good doggie.’

The dog wagged its tail. It was a mangy-looking specimen, he thought, like its lord and master. Father Giffley wrinkled his forehead. He thought of a religious picture which had hung somewhere, of a saint who wept for his ox. The picture he remembered clearly—a great, bearded human face pressed in fellowship against the hairy face of the beast—but the saint’s name evaded him. Or—after all, was it called ‘The Peasant Weeps Over His Ox’? Father Giffley was unsure. He patted the dog’s head. Then he straightened and said:

‘You shouldn’t spend too much time in this place. The air is foul. Call into the housekeeper later—I’ll tell her to give you some breakfast, and some scraps for Rusty. Do you drink?’

‘Whenever good luck pushes a drop under my nose.’

‘I’ll tell her to give you a little something to take home.’

‘God bless you, Father.’

‘For your bronchitis, you understand,’ Father Giffley added.

He climbed the steps and went out into the air, which was mild. When he had seen the housekeeper he came back again, circled the courtyard a couple of times and then went out into the street. With his hands behind his back and his head bowed forward he pushed through the people who were on their way to mass. They parted for him. Some of them who greeted him were acknowledged with an inclination of the head, others he did not see. He passed under the railway bridge, through side streets which were so far from the church that people wondered to see a priest dressed only in his soutane. Here and there he stopped to talk to children who were playing hopscotch and skipping outside the tenements which occupied so large a part of his parish. He came to the riverside at last and remained leaning against a capstan for some time. To the right and left of him ships lay to. Sunday ships, deserted, he would believe, were it not for the smoke streaming up from the galleys. The cranes were still and the buckets empty. Behind him the bells of Sunday were clamouring throughout the city, marking the arrival of each half-hour. Men passed him and saluted. One of them, a young man of average height, well built, had a grimy and unsabbath like face.

‘Good morning,’ Father Giffley said.

‘Good morning, Father.’

‘Have you been working?’

‘At it all night, Father,’ Fitz said. He pushed his cap on to the back of his head and now that he had stopped, let his eyes travel with the river to the point where the north and south walls widened, disappeared and left it to the sea. It was sluggish and grey, but with a sheen here and there that acknowledged the sunshine.

‘Shift work, I suppose?’ Father Giffley questioned.

‘At the foundry, Father.’

‘How do you get to mass?’

‘Our mates come in an hour earlier on Sundays—we do the same for them in our turn.’

‘You’re a good bunch of men,’ Father Giffley said. ‘You’ll be off to a football match after the dinner, I suppose?’

Fitz smiled and said: ‘No such luck today—I’m minding the kids.’

‘Letting herself out?’

‘For a change,’ Fitz said easily. Father Giffley, he realised, did not remember him.

‘You’ve a button in your coat,’ Father Giffley remarked, ‘and I haven’t seen one like it before.’

Fitz said it was a trade union button.

‘Will they release Larkin, do you think?’

‘There’s great talk of it, Father.’

‘So they should,’ Father Giffley said. ‘Have you ever been on strike?’

‘Which of us hasn’t?’

‘Of course,’ Father Giffley said, ‘everybody in my parish has been, I suppose. They don’t treat you very fairly, do they?’

It was not a question that needed answering. Father Giffley rose and put his hands behind his back once more.

‘No, indeed,’ he said as he went off, ‘they do not.’

He went back again through the side streets. People who knew him thought it strange, not because he was walking in his soutane—he was odd and had peculiar ways—but because he was seldom known to stroll through his parish.

The high windows let in the afternoon sun behind the girl at the bedside, giving lights to her smooth, black hair, leaving her pale face in shadow. She was the girl with the two children who so often brought her snuff, who in fact had just given her a small packet of snuff, which was now under the pillow somewhere, if she could find it. She quested with the fingers of one hand.

‘I’ll get it for you.’

The lights in the hair went out as the girl who had left a good place to marry some poor chap or other leaned nearer the bed. Mary . . . that was the name she was searching for.

‘What were you saying, love?’ Miss Gilchrist asked.

‘I said I’ll get it for you.’

The young face smiled. A pleasant girl, she now remembered, who always brought her snuff. Mary.

‘I mean before that.’

‘I was saying the days are growing short already.’

‘What day is it?’

‘Sunday.’

Of course it was Sunday. It was on Sundays she got the snuff. If she used it carefully and watched that it wasn’t stolen it would last a week. Almost.

‘When I was a young bit of a thing in Dublin at first I never liked Sundays.’

‘Why was that?’

‘The bells. I never liked the sound of them.’

‘Yes. They make you lonely when there’s only yourself.’

‘Our own bells making a din the whole of the morning. And then the Protestant bells going in the afternoon. And the bells for devotion at seven or eight o’clock. They made such a commotion from morning till night I used to be glad when it was Monday.’

‘I was like that myself too, at first.’

‘When you looked out the window and saw everyone else parading it in their finery?’

‘Meeting each other and going to each other’s houses.’

‘That was it.’

Lonely, that was it. In the winter it had not been so bad, though. There were more musical evenings. You got used to it. Sometimes, even, you enjoyed it. Guests got to notice you, gradually. They enquired after your health. They said, ‘Miss Gilchrist, you’re a treasure—you really are.’

‘Is it very warm out?’

‘It’s lovely—for October.’

‘Is it October . . .? Well, well.’

She made a noise of disbelief.

‘That’s what I was saying. About the days growing short.’

They always began to grow short in October, the days did. The leaves began to come down on the lawn; a bit of wind and you spent the day sweeping, unless Mrs. Bradhaw saw you and said leave them; a woman that liked leaves lying about, the colours beautiful, the sound as your feet brushed through them on the walks, a sentimental woman. If there was a sup of rain you could slip and break your ankle. Small comfort in the swish and colour then.

The girl handed her the packet and said, ‘Take a little of your snuff.’

It blurred the outer world with water, making the lungs larger inside and the air that entered them weighty and nourishing. She put it back carefully under her pillow.

‘They steal it on me when I’m sleeping,’ she confided. ‘The nurses do it or one of the patients.’

‘Perhaps you mislay it,’ the girl said in a gentle tone.

‘No fear—it’s stolen. If I find out who I’ll crucify her for it. Time and time again I reach under my pillow and it’s gone—spirited away—vanished.’

‘It’s a shame for them,’ Mary said. As she did so the dismissal bell began in a nearby ward. The sound came nearer. She rose, promising to come next Sunday.

‘If I’m still here,’ Miss Gilchrist said.

‘Of course you’ll be here.’

Miss Gilchrist smiled a little and closed her eyes.

They let her sleep through the evening meal. When she awakened she reached for the snuff immediately. It had gone. She raised herself with a great mustering of willpower and looked about her at the other beds.

‘Who took my snuff?’ she shouted. ‘Which of youse thieving trollops made love to my snuff?’ Nobody answered. When she shouted again a nurse came to quieten her.

‘Where did you put it?’ the nurse asked.

‘Here—under my pillow.’

The nurse searched. ‘There’s no snuff,’ the nurse said finally, ‘you must have been dreaming.’

‘I wasn’t dreaming. It was brought to me today.’ The nurse patted the pillow into shape and arranged the bedclothes. Her face was stern.

‘Now, now,’ she said, firmly.

Father Giffley took afternoon devotions. They consisted of rosary, sermon and benediction. While Father O’Sullivan preached the sermon Father Giffley, who sat to one side of the altar, his hands palms downwards on his knees, his head inclined forward, saw the altar boy with ginger hair nod off to sleep—as usual. After tea they sat together in a room on the ground floor which the three priests sometimes shared. Father O’Sullivan, writing at the table, found the matter difficult. He frowned frequently and bit the handle of his pen. At the fireside Father Giffley rested his black book on his knee. He wrote easily but slowly, pausing often to search his memory. He wrote: ‘Thomas A Kempis instructs us as follows: “I had rather feel compunction than know the definition thereof.” Father O’Sullivan, who is still trying to write a devotional booklet, if I recognise the signs, and I ought to be able to by now, is an illustration of what it means. “If thou knowest the whole Bible by heart, and the sayings of all the philosophers, what would it profit thee without love of God and without grace?”

That hits at me, of course. Except that I don’t know very much by heart.

“It is Vanity to desire to live long and not to care to live well.”

My trouble is that I care to live too well. A Kempis means something quite different. There we are—the difficulty of communication. You do not care to live well. You only care to live well.

“Call often to mind the proverb—The eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.”

That’s the best thing he has said. We see and we hear. But it is the thing beyond the eye that we immediately wish to see. We hear and there is still something unheard even in what we hear. And it tempts us to seek a more complete satisfaction. What kind of satisfaction? Society, Power, Eminence—what? I do not know. We seek it, just the same. Of course it doesn’t exist, this S-A-T-I-S-F-A-C-T-I-O-N. Only the craving. Of course, a drop from the B. kills it. Temporarily.

“For they that follow their lusts stain their own consciences and lose the grace of God.”

Me again. The drop from the B. Lust of the Belly.’ He closed the book.

‘You are very quiet, Father,’ he said.

Father O’Sullivan looked up vaguely. After a painful knitting of the brows he succeeded in relating the remark to himself.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said.

‘What is the subject this time?’

Father O’Sullivan left down his pen. He was diffident.

‘The Holy Family as a model for the ordering of the humble Catholic home.’

‘It’s always the humble Catholic home we dare to order, isn’t it?’ Father Giffley remarked. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re still trying.’

‘No longer very hopefully,’ Father O’Sullivan confessed.

‘Oh, I don’t know. In the world of—ah—literature’ (Father Giffley stumbled unintentionally over the word) ‘I’m told it’s quite usual to fail, over and over again.’

Father O’Sullivan smiled and looked embarrassed.

‘You mustn’t call it literature—that would frighten me off altogether.’

‘Pamphlets, religious exhortations, devotional booklets—they all have to be written, haven’t they? Though, having read my fill of them I must confess that frequently I fail to see why.’

‘They serve a very great need.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘I have no doubt about it. That’s why I keep trying to write them.’

‘Thousands are written. Are they not enough? Why should you try to add to them?’

‘I can never answer that question when I put it to myself. When I sit down to write it comes so terribly hard with me that I feel I’m the last one in the world who should attempt it. And yet, whenever I stop trying, I become desperately unhappy.’

Father Giffley grunted impatiently. Yet his face, turned fully now on Father O’Sullivan, was gentle with sympathy and companionship.

‘Some day, never fear, you’ll write one that will be approved. You’ll see it among the others on the bookstand at the door of the Church. The Holy Family, A Devotional Booklet for the Catholic Home. With a nicely coloured cover. Your lifelong ambition available to the world at the popular price of one halfpenny. Does the thought make you happy?’

Father O’Sullivan considered. Then he said:

‘I am not quite sure, Father, whether you are saying that to encourage me or to amuse yourself.’

‘Both,’ Father Giffley confessed. He looked into the fire. His mood changed.

‘How long are you here, John?’

He very rarely used Christian names. He hardly noticed now that he had done so.

‘I came three years after yourself.’

‘And you are contented with St. Brigid’s?’

‘It’s much the same as anywhere else.’

‘In some ways, yes. We baptise, we marry, we minister to the sick, we bury the dead. And that’s all you have to say.’

‘I think so.’

‘Does it never trouble you, John, to think that there are parishes where faces are not hungry and where rooms are not bare and children are not dirty? Don’t you wish, every now and then, that you could hear confessions without having to endure the smell of badly nourished bodies?’

‘I have never thought about it.’

‘Never?’

Father O’Sullivan frowned in his effort to give a precise answer.

‘Perhaps at times I have noticed . . . I honestly can’t say.’

‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Father Giffley said. ‘I don’t blame the people. I blame those who are responsible for a deplorable state of affairs; hypocrites and windbags—all of them pious, and all of them pitiless.’

‘Would you agree with Mr. Larkin, then?’

Father Giffley hit the book on his knee with the flat of his hand.

‘I do—by the Lord Harry. He’ll do what our respected colleagues haven’t the stomach to attempt—he’ll put the fear of God into all of them.’

He stared at the opposite wall. Father O’Sullivan, watching his face, began to fear for him. His eyes gleamed too brightly, his mouth was rigid. Once again the eyes turned to Father O’Sullivan.

‘We seem to be missing the pleasure of Father O’Connor’s company.’

Anxiety made Father O’Sullivan’s voice unsure.

‘It’s his evening free.’

‘I am aware of that. Does he visit in the parish?’

‘No. In Kingstown, I think. He has friends out there.’

‘Ah yes, his comfortable friends. I thought he had given up all that to work among the poor.’

Father O’Sullivan attempted an explanation.

‘They give him money from time to time, I understand, which he distributes through the Confraternity Committee.’

‘Hmm. He doesn’t distribute it himself, of course.’

‘He doesn’t wish to have the credit.’

‘You mean he hasn’t the stomach for it,’ Father Giffley said. ‘I may not know the sayings of all the philosophers, but I know something about character. St. Brigid’s has taught me.’

Father O’Sullivan lowered his eyes, embarrassed.

‘You think I should keep a bridle on my tongue—eh, Father?’

Father O’Sullivan did not reply.

‘The tongue was made to speak truth and do battle,’ Father Giffley insisted. ‘I’ll risk the occasional sin of uncharity.’

He went abruptly back to his book, fidgeted about, then wrote the letters of the word Satisfaction under each other from the top to the bottom of the page. He began to make a poem. It was an old device of his. Sometimes it worked. He roughed out the lines on one sheet of paper and then, when each seemed right, he put it after its appropriate letter in the black-covered book. As he struggled with his task the night grew older. An hour, two hours, passed. Father O’Sullivan completed what he was writing and excused himself. The servant restocked the fire twice. At last Father Giffley re-read what he had written:

Sun on the river spreads peace in this Sabbath of stillness

After the season of toil, the sorrow of labour

The children of bondage have straightened and flung away tiredness

In parks and at pastimes escaped from their tyrant the harbour

Seagull, you skim on white feathers where old ships are sleeping

Fleeing the stain that pursues on the face of the water

All who are born, all under Heaven’s strange keeping

Carry the stain and drag the same shadow after.

Teach me O symbol, Sing of the Holy Spirit

I am in dread and seek to outstrip the shadow

Oh, lead Thou to God and His Presence—lead, through Christ’s Merit.

Not to His Feet, but Their Print in the dews of His Meadow.

It disappointed him. He did not like it very much, although he had struggled manfully with it and it had taken a long, long time, so long that he was stiff and his eyes ached. Still, it had served its purpose. He went up to his room, undressed wearily and got into bed. He felt tired in a dull way, all his interest spent. He was no poet, yet he had accomplished something better than a poem. He had resisted the urge to open the press, to feel with trembling fingers for the neck of the bottle. Once more he had won a victory. It would be only temporary, he knew that. But each temporary triumph would stave off a little longer the eventual collapse. It would come, that collapse. Father Giffley did not try to fool himself. It was a disease—this appetite of his. He had seen others. Unless by a miracle of grace . . . and he was unworthy of that.

They were lighting the lamps in Chandlers Court. The children still played in the street. They were used to Rashers and his dog by now and let both pass without stopping to jeer at them as was once their habit. Rashers paid no attention either. He was tired and unwell. But he had food in his bag and the whiskey Father Giffley had said he was to get. It was a generous measure—nearly half a bottle. That was something. The housekeeper was glad to give away as much of it as she could. It would leave all the less for the parish priest, God help him. It was not right in a priest to . . . And then his face, purple all the time. The smell of peppermints from his breath too. She had seen it begin and she had seen it become a habit and then more than habit. She had seen . . . Well, there were strange things in the world and indeed if everybody was made the same it would be a very dull place indeed. It wasn’t always the virtuous and the temperate who were the most forbearing and considerate of those in a lowlier station. Not by a long chalk. Father Giffley was a harsh man with his equals and his superiors, more power to him, but he was seldom cross with those who had the menial place. He took everything from them as it came. There were certain others now . . . no names—no pack drill.

Rashers hoped Hennessy might be about, but there was no sign of him. He could have shared some of the whiskey with him and he would have welcomed his chat. Hennessy had an interest in things. Hennessy had suggested staying in the boiler-house. It seemed to have done his rheumatism good, but not his bronchitis. He wanted to tell Hennessy that. Hennessy would be interested. And now this dark damp hall, these rickety stairs and the wave of cold, wet air and the smell of clay as he opened the door to the basement room.

‘Like a grave, Rusty,’ he said, groping about for the bottle with the candle butt. It gave a wavering light. His bedding was still as he had left it, the rags lying in a heap at the bottom of the straw. The biscuit box had another coat of rust and the jamjars were stained with stale tea.

‘No fire to cock your behind to tonight, Rusty,’ he said. The dog sat down on the clay floor, first to scratch itself, then to sniff at the accumulated odours, his nose detecting and defining delicately the week’s trespassers.

‘Have they been here?’ Rashers questioned. He was taking off his clothes.

‘You’re not to go eating them,’ he warned. ‘Chase them if you want to—kill them with my full licence and leave; but don’t devour them. Don’t even taste them. The rats in this bloody place would poison you.’

He lay back on the bedding and adjusted the rags about him.

‘Anyway, we have some tasty morsels here.’

From the sack near his head he selected food, giving portion of it to the dog. Both began to eat. For tonight, at least, there was enough and plenty. He put a little of the meat aside to give to Mrs. Bartley and the children. It would be nourishing for them and there would be luck in the eating of it, since it had come from the table of the priest. Good luck and bad luck wandered the streets outside, invisible, so that you never knew until afterwards which of the pair you had been meeting up with. Above the streets were God and His Mother, His saints, His angels. Sometimes, if the luck was too persistently bad, one or other of them might intervene to help you out. They had done so for Rashers. Brushing the crumbs from his beard, he gave thanks. He was stretching out his hand to put out the candle when someone knocked at the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Hennessy.’

‘Come in.’

Hennessy was wearing an unfamiliar bowler and a coat that was too large for him.

‘Style—begod,’ Rashers commented.

‘I was given them from a house in Nutley Lane,’ Hennessy said. ‘What are you lying there for?’

‘I’m in bed—a most respectable place to be.’

‘You should be above in the streets singing ballads. Such excitement. Did you not meet up with any of it? There was a procession and speeches.’

‘I declare to God the Parnell anniversary parade. And I never thought of it.’

‘That’s not until next week.’

‘It’s no use anyway,’ Rashers said, ‘they’re not very givish with the money.’

‘They’ve released Larkin,’ Hennessy explained. ‘The Viceroy himself ordered it. The Irish flag and the stars and stripes is flying outside 10 Beresford Place and there’s a meeting going on this past hour. Get up and come round to it with your ballad.’

Rashers shook his head. He had eaten; he had drawn his ten shillings wages. Besides, he was not feeling too well.

‘I’m not up to the mark,’ he said. ‘The oul chest. And the leg is giving me hell.’

The bowler was too big for Hennessy. He pushed it up off his forehead.

‘It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.’

‘No,’ Rashers said, ‘sing it for them yourself.’

Hennessy wondered would he. It would earn money. There were thousands crammed in the street outside the union hall. They would be there for about an hour more; longer, if Larkin decided to speak again. But he had never yet, in the extremes of his neediness, tried singing as a livelihood. It would be a step nearer to beggary. It surprised him to find that there was a step still below him. He would work at anything; he would scrounge and borrow; he would not stand in the street and sing. With tact, he said:

‘I wouldn’t have the voice.’

‘I’ve heard to the differ—that you’re a great hand at a song or a recitation.’

‘I haven’t the right kind of voice for the outdoor stuff.’

‘Try the pubs.’

‘No,’ Hennessy said, ‘it’s your ballad. I wouldn’t make use of it.’

‘Please yourself,’ Rashers said.

Disappointed, Hennessy moved towards the door.

‘Before you go,’ Rashers said, ‘take a swig of this.’

‘Glory be to God!’ Hennessy exclaimed, when he saw the bottle. He took out the cork and swallowed.

‘You’re welcome to your half—if you care to stay.’

Tempted, Hennessy hesitated. But he thought of the crowds, the speeches, the excitement. Something might happen, something that had never happened before and, as like as not, would never happen again.

‘No. I’ll get back. I wouldn’t care to miss what’s going on.’

‘Please yourself,’ Rashers said again.

‘Well . . . I hope your chest improves. A good night’s rest works wonders.’

The door dosed. Rashers, disappointed in his turn, reached once more for the candle, smothering the flame between his finger and thumb. The dog whimpered. Rusty would stay with him, anyway.

When Rashers lay down he fell asleep, but after an hour or less he woke up coughing. He groped again for the whiskey. At the first gulp his cough got worse. At the second it stopped. Now that he knew where the housekeeper kept it, there was always the chance of acquiring a little from time to time. They sent him to the kitchen on and off for messages. Quite often there was nobody there. A drop now and then for medicine, to help him sleep. There wouldn’t be any great harm in that. ‘Well—we’ll see,’ he said aloud to the dog. He took a third swig for good measure. He lay back then and slept right through until the morning.

While he did so the submerged city continued to gather at Beresford Place. They were coming out en masse once again, as Father O’Connor had seen them do only a few months previously, coming from hovels and tenements, flaunting their rags and their destitution, disrupting traffic and driving the respectable off the pavements. Once again their arrogance astounded the press, which brought the whole story to Father O’Connor at breakfast the next morning. He was disturbed, for it appeared now that some of the well-to-do class had spoken from Larkin’s platform congratulating him on his release, describing it as a victory for the workers of Dublin.

‘Can you tell me who Countess Markiewicz is, Father?’ he enquired, over his paper.

Father O’Sullivan thought very hard but had to acknowledge that he did not know. He was not greatly interested in such things. Father Giffley, who was also at table, did. However, he did not feel like enlightening Father O’Connor; instead, he held out his cup to him, requesting more tea with an aloof movement of his eyebrows.

For brief moments over an endless day it was the iron end-piece of a bed, the rough boards of the ward, a nurse, an old woman in a shapeless grey dress. It was a face filling the whole of the visible, bending. But for long periods it was the laneway at home, winding between ash and sycamore, with blue sky and white cloud above the branches of trees, so dizzily bright that when you stared too long it all swung upside down and you fell in. In the house it was evening with shadows already in the corners and the fire burning high on the hearth. You took food on a tray to the loft where among sacks and oddments two bearded faces turned towards you when you entered. They took the food and said ‘Thank you’ in very good voices indeed. Once, one of them, the younger one who was very manly and handsome said:

‘How old are you, Sara?’

‘Seventeen, sir.’

‘You mustn’t call me sir—I’m only twenty. Do you think we will escape?’

‘I pray for it—I keep praying.’

‘You’re very kind, Sara. And you’re terribly pretty.’

‘No, indeed.’

‘But yes, Sara. I hope you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘I don’t mind.’

Why would you mind? It was forward but not when a young man was about to be captured and to die maybe, not then. Or the evening when he came down to the kitchen and asked if he might speak to you for a little while. Or the morning the soldiers came and his eyes, the way they looked at you as they took him away. You walked again among the ash and the sycamore and in the terrible silence that would never more be broken it was the look in the eyes you remembered. She would never breed men like that again, Ireland of the heroes and the songs and the great deeds. It was strange you could remember forever a young face and strong fingers reaching to take bread from a platter and a voice saying ‘You’re terribly pretty’ and a look in a pair of going-away eyes. It was ash and sycamore, it was shadows and a fire, it was bare boards and a nurse and the end-piece of an iron bed.

She stirred and felt she must sit up. Just once, before she gave in finally to the weariness and the sickness. It was hard though, to overcome it. Several times she tensed the muscles and levered on her elbows and thought at last she was sitting up; yet when she shook her head to clear it she was still lying down and had not stirred at all. Was she, then, powerless? For ever? She tried again and again, until at last she found she was really and truly off her back. Not sitting up, she discovered, but raised, supported by her elbows, seeing the beds about her, some empty, some occupied. It was morning, she thought. Those not in bed were busy with small tasks. None of them seemed to notice her. She tried to talk to the woman in the bed beside her but succeeded only in making noises. She persisted, searching for speech until at last the head turned towards her. The eyes stared at her and the voice called out:

‘Nurse . . . Nurse . . . come quickly.’

The rest stopped what they were doing to turn and stare. Then she saw the whole face clearly, a grey, alarmed face with a single brown snot oozing down in a thin line from one nostril to the mouth. She thought of her snuff and knew that she had found out at last. Her speech came back to her suddenly, in a storm of shock and anger.

‘It was you, you bitch,’ she screamed, ‘it was you that robbed me.’

The nurse had reached her and was about to push her back. There was no need. Her elbows slid gently under her of their own accord, her body, of its own accord, settled back again on the mattress. There was no further movement in the face and, when the nurse took the wrist, no further movement discernible in the pulse. She went for the doctor. He took his time about coming. When he arrived it was only to draw the coarse sheet over Miss Gilchrist’s face.