Strumpet City

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

On St. Patrick’s Day, the newspapers reported, the weather was somewhat sharp—but for the robust, healthy and invigorating. The display of the chosen leaf was universal. In the Pro-Cathedral and other churches the ceremonies were specially devoted to panegyrics of the national Saint and sermons in Irish were preached to crowded congregations. A visiting English priest reminded the Irish Faithful that it was fifteen hundred years since Ireland’s great Father and Friend had passed away to the music of the spheres. Another referred to Home Rule and prophesied that the hour of National deliverance was at last at hand. The shop windows of the city, including the one Keever had dressed, devoted themselves to displays of home-manufactured goods while the citizens, most of whom had a holiday, went to the races at Baldoyle or made extended excursions by train, tram and outside car. From the flagstaffs of the Town Halls from Dublin to Bray the green flag was floating, Kingstown being the only exception. It was the exception that proved the Rule.

At the Mansion House the Gaelic League denounced the Post Office for refusing to accept parcels addressed in Irish. At the Castle there was a St. Patrick’s Ball where the excellent music of the band, the gaily moving dancers, the beautiful costumes of the ladies, the bright and varied military uniforms of the officers and officials, the stately Court dress of the gentlemen, all blended in a pleasing kaleidoscope of colour and harmony. Earlier his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant had attended the trooping of the colour in the Castle yard, where he inspected the parade of the Second Battalion West Riding Regiment. It was thrash the beetles and God Save the King; Hail Glorious St. Patrick for Britannia Ruled the Waves.

Hennessy inspected a parade too. It was the procession of the Irish National Foresters in their plumed hats and tight breeches, marching on their way from Parnell Square to Donnybrook Church, headed by members of the Ladies’ Section in their long cloaks. In order to do so fittingly he bought a buttonhole of shamrock with a penny and told the vendor to keep the change. He found the day robust and sharp, but not invigorating. He had continuous trouble with a drop on the end of his nose due to the wind and an attack of chronic catarrh. He wiped it away several times but it kept on turning up again. Like a bad ha’penny, he decided.

It did not affect his humour. He had had regular work for some weeks that paid modestly and was full time. It would continue for another fortnight at least. After that it would be time enough to worry again. For the present he had a little money, the National Festival to celebrate, a band to listen to and a parade to gawk at.

It was a good parade. The Foresters stepping it out in their ostrich-plumed hats, their frilled shirts, their top boots, their green coats and plentiful gold braid brought back the age of Erin The Brave. In line upon line the proud brotherhood passed him, imperishable, glorious, while with erect soldierly bearing and eyes flashing under the rim of his bowler hat he reviewed them rank by rank—Robert Emmet Hennessy; Aloysius Wolfe Tone. The band made his heart beat hard and sent his blood racing. It played (but in march time, he noted) ‘O Rich And Rare were the Gems She Wore’, which told of a maiden who adorned in costly jewels and without escort of any kind walked the length and breadth of Ireland unafraid of robbery or assault.

Hennessy repeated to himself:

‘Kind sir I have not the least alarm

No son of Erin would offer me harm

For, though they love women and golden store

Sir Knight—they love honour and virtue more.’

So too did Son of Erin Robert Emmet Hennessy, the Honour and Virtue loving Aloysius Wolfe Tone.

The parade passed, the music of the band faded away on the somewhat sharp but healthy and invigorating March air. He had been to holy mass already. It was time to wet the shamrock. A hot whiskey, he thought.

‘Sharp weather,’ he said as he asked for it.

‘It’s healthy,’ the publican said.

‘Better than the rain,’ a customer put in.

‘Invigorating,’ the publican agreed.

Hennessy removed the drop from his nose and wondered if the publican would be as enthusiastic if he had to be out in it. But the golden colour in his glass and the steam rising from it mollified him.

‘Here’s the first today,’ he said, raising the glass in salute.

‘Sláinte,’ the publican returned.

The other customer approved.

‘That’s what I like to hear,’ he told Hennessy, ‘an Irishman using his native language—matteradam whether he knows much or little of it.’

‘I know damn all about it,’ the publican confessed honestly, ‘except that sláinte bit and Conus Tawtoo. And—oh yes—slawn lath.’

‘There you are,’ said the customer encouragingly, ‘you know a fair bit just the same.’

‘If I had to confess my sins in it,’ said the publican, ‘I’d stay unshriven.’

He was a man who refused to be flattered.

‘Are you an exponent yourself, sir?’ Hennessy enquired, adopting a tone of gentility in deference to the other’s air of education and good manners.

‘In a modest way,’ the other confessed, ‘I’ve attended classes.’

‘At mass this morning the sermon was in Irish,’ Hennessy told them. ‘It was a grand thing to hear.’

‘And did you understand it?’ the publican asked.

‘Well—no,’ Hennessy admitted.

‘I fail to see the sense in that,’ the publican decided. He was counting empty bottles into a crate.

‘In honour of the National Apostle,’ Hennessy explained.

‘And did St. Patrick speak Irish?’

‘Fluently,’ the customer said.

‘I didn’t know that, mind you,’ the publican admitted.

‘Irish and Latin,’ Hennessy confirmed.

‘Latin, naturally,’ the customer agreed, ‘it was the language of the Universal Church.’

‘If he didn’t know Irish,’ said Hennessy, pressing his point, ‘how could he have explained our holy religion to the Irish princes and chiefs. There wasn’t one of them knew a word of English.’

‘French,’ the customer corrected.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘French,’ the customer repeated, ‘St. Patrick’s native language was French.’

‘Well—French then,’ Hennessy amended. ‘I doubt any of the Irish princes spoke French.’

‘To be fair now,’ said the customer, ‘some of them might have. There was a lot of trade with the Continent, if you remember.’

‘That’s true,’ Hennessy said, with an educated nod.

The publican hoisted the full crate on to the counter and exclaimed blasphemously as he jammed his thumb in the process. Then he apologised and said:

‘That’s one kind of language the Saint wouldn’t know, I’ll warrant.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ the customer said, ‘he could be crusty enough.’

‘Giving out oul lip to God at times, I believe,’ Hennessy said.

‘That’s true. When he was fasting up there on Croagh Patrick and wrestling with the devil. He hammered hard at God to get the privilege from him of being allowed to be the judge of the race of the Gael on the Last Day.’

‘He got that promise—I understand,’ Hennessy said.

‘I take a lot of that stuff with a grain of salt,’ the publican told them. He was cooling his bruised thumb under the counter tap.

‘Ah well,’ Hennessy said, ‘whoever it is does the judging, I hope he won’t be too hard on any of us.’

‘Right enough,’ the publican said, relenting, ‘the only difference between any of us is that if one of us is bad, the other is a damn sight worse.’

‘Amen to that,’ said the customer.

They had another in honour of the day that was in it, the publican, despite initial reservations about the earliness of the hour at length consenting in deference to the demands of true patriotism, to join them. They toasted the cause of Ireland which was Holy and their kin both at home and in exile. They then shook hands and said slan leat several times and went their various ways.

Hennessy was a little light in the head. He was also very happy. He liked things going on about him and welcomed the holiday bustle in the streets. The public buildings were gay with flags, men and women wore their sprays of shamrock pinned to their coats or pushed jauntily into their hat bands. The little girls had green ribbons in their hair, the small boys wore harps and St. Patrick badges on their jerseys. He was glad he had got mass on his way from his night work and that he had the foresight to bring something in with him so that he could have his breakfast on the job. It left him free to enjoy the celebrations without the inconvenience of feeling hungry. Later he would arrive home with little gifts to distribute. For the moment the church bells and the traffic and the sounds of parading bands were blending together in a wave of welcome excitement. It was Ireland’s Great Day.

As the bell of St. Brigid’s boomed across the forecourt to summon its shamrock bedecked parishioners to last mass, Father O’Sullivan pushed open the door of the common room. He found Father O’Connor waiting for him. The fire was blazing away satisfactorily, the great centre table was set for lunch. They would dine later than usual today in order to accommodate their guest, the Reverend Father Ernst Boehm of the Society of Jesus, who had consented to lead the rosary and deliver the sermon in Irish at afternoon devotions. He was, they understood, a Gaelic scholar of distinction.

The housekeeper seemed to have done very well. The napkins were tastefully arranged, a dish of shamrock made a pleasant display of green against the white tablecloth.

‘Mrs. O’Gorman has excelled herself—don’t you think?’ Father O’Sullivan remarked. As senior curate he was responsible for parish affairs in Father Giffley’s absence. The entertainment of so important a guest caused him anxiety.

‘She has forgotten the finger-bowl,’ Father O’Connor said.

‘The finger-bowl?’ Father O’Sullivan repeated. He surveyed, inexpertly, the layout of the table.

‘Thank goodness you noticed,’ he said, ‘we can have that put right.’

‘Without difficulty,’ Father O’Connor assured him. His manner was grim.

‘I have been wondering what we should offer him. Beforehand—I mean. Whiskey, do you think?’

‘Sherry would be better.’

‘Sherry, of course. I’m the world’s worst at this sort of thing . . . Have we got any?’

‘I saw to it.’

‘Grand. I’m glad you thought of that.’

‘I also took the liberty of ordering some wine. For the meal. I felt you would agree.’

‘Of course. That was very farseeing. These S.J.s . . . Besides, he’s a Continental, isn’t he?’

‘German.’

‘Boehm. Yes, indeed. Thank God you thought of the wine. We’d be put to shame altogether.’

Father O’Sullivan rubbed his hands together and chuckled at his thoughts.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘it’s comical when you come to think of it. When we need someone who is able to preach in Irish on the feast of our National Apostle, we have to ask a German.’

He noticed that Father O’Connor declined to be amused.

‘Is there something amiss, Father?’ he asked, his anxiety returning.

‘With great respect,’ Father O’Connor said grimly, ‘I think there is.’

He turned and stared at the notice on the wall. It still hung to the right of the enormous painting of the Crucifixion, its bold red letters and its improvised air clashing with the heavy respectability of the rest of the room. It had no place there above the upholstered armchairs, the hospitable fire, the great breadth of the tastefully laid table. The cardboard had warped and yellowed but the message was still large and legible:

‘Notice

The Great St. Gregory has said

It is not Enough to have Learning

These Also are My Sheep.’

‘We have discussed this before,’ Father O’Sullivan said gently. He was embarrassed.

‘We have,’ Father O’Connor conceded, ‘and I am sorry to speak about it again.’

‘If we removed it and Father Giffley returns, he could rightly feel that we took advantage of his illness to flout his authority.’

‘Father Giffley won’t return.’

‘I can only hope you are wrong.’

‘Besides,’ Father O’Connor pressed, ‘all that is over. It no longer serves any purpose whatever.’

‘I agree with you. But it will do no harm to leave it there until he returns.’

‘Among ourselves—no. We are both used to Father Giffley’s extraordinary . . . habits. But what about our guest?’

‘Perhaps he won’t notice it.’

‘He won’t,’ Father O’Connor said irritably, ‘if he happens to be blind.’

Father O’Sullivan said unhappily, but with no sign of changing his mind: ‘I am sorry it should distress you.’

‘I am concerned about Father Boehm,’ Father O’Connor answered. ‘He will suspect us of harbouring some madman with a passion for scrawling on walls. However, I will say no more. After all, he will be right.’

He went off to remind the housekeeper about the finger-bowl.

In the hallway Hennessy debated with himself whether to visit Rashers first or the Fitzpatricks. He decided to leave Rashers until last. He had a drop of whiskey and would stay to share a drink with him and to gossip about the goings on in the city. After that he would go up to his own place and his dinner. There would be a bit of bacon and cabbage to mark the feast day. He looked forward to that.

Fitz himself opened the door to his knock. Mary and the children had gone to mass and to look at the parades. He invited Hennessy to step in.

‘Am I disturbing you?’

‘Not a bit,’ Fitz said, ‘I’m all on my own.’

The room was still bare of any real furniture. But there was a fire in the grate and the table which had been cracked by the raiding police was serviceable. Fitz had improvised chairs out of wooden boxes. He waved Hennessy to one of them.

‘We’re a bit short on decent chairs,’ Fitz apologised.

‘The depredations of the militant months,’ Hennessy remarked sympathetically. ‘I still see them everywhere.’

‘I think things are getting better,’ Fitz said.

‘For some,’ Hennessy agreed.

‘For yourself—I hope.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Hennessy admitted. ‘I fell on my feet. A steady job as night watchman.’

Fitz smiled.

‘You seem to be a great draw as a night watchman.’

‘It suits my peculiar temperament,’ Hennessy said. ‘I can stay up all night, but early rising never agreed with me.’

He took a cigarette packet from his pocket and offered one to Fitz. He kept talking as he did so. He was anxious to share his riches without drawing any notice to the fact that circumstances had for the moment reversed their respective roles of giver and receiver.

‘It’s a tidy little job and of course—all bona feedy and above board. No trouble about the union. In fact I called to ask you about joining up.’ He thought a moment and then added, ‘Of course it would have to be on the Q.T.—for the moment.’

‘There’s no trouble about that,’ Fitz said, ‘just call down to number one branch in Liberty Hall. Say I sent you. You’ll get a card right away.’

‘And I can keep it quiet for the moment so far as the job is concerned?’

‘A lot of us have to do that,’ Fitz told him.

‘That suits up to the veins of nicety,’ Hennessy decided.

He had left his bowler on the table. He now stood up to retrieve it. It was, Fitz remembered, a size or so too large for his head, the overcoat too broad for his light body. Hennessy fumbled for some time in the pocket of the overcoat and produced a paper bag.

‘It’s a few sweets for the children,’ he explained, handing the bag to Fitz.

‘You’re a strange man,’ Fitz commented, ‘spending your few shillings on these.’

‘Now, now,’ Hennessy said, ‘they cost nothing. A little treat for St. Patrick’s Day.’

‘They’ll be delighted,’ Fitz assured him.

Hennessy put the bowler back on his head, using his ears as wedges to prevent it from falling down over his eyes. He had completed his business. Fitz saw him to the door.

‘Hennessy,’ he said, ‘I’m glad to see you fixed up. It wasn’t a pleasant experience having to stop you in your last job.’

‘All’s fair in love and war,’ Hennessy said agreeably.

‘Your wife didn’t think so.’

‘She was a bit put out,’ Hennessy admitted.

‘I didn’t blame her.’

‘Women seldom appreciates a principle.’

‘A lot of men have the same failing.’

‘That’s why I hope I can claim a modest place among the trusted and the true.’

‘You can,’ Fitz assured him.

Hennessy looked pleased.

‘Well, then. I’d better be leaving. I’ve to see Rashers and then go up to my dinner. I have a few sweets for him as well. You’d be hard set to decide which of them has the sweeter tooth—himself or his dog.’

Fitz smiled and held open the door. A thought struck him.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘what sort of a place is it you’re doing the watching in?’

Hennessy hesitated. Then, with an air of apology he said:

‘Well—as a matter of fact—it’s a sweet factory.’

‘I see,’ Fitz said gravely.

He had been right. The expropriators were being expropriated.

Hennessy checked his pockets to be sure he had the sweets and that the drop of whiskey was still safe. It was. He anticipated a complaint from Rashers for not having visited him for so long. The new job and the night work had upset his routine. The whiskey would heal the breach. Maybe Rashers would be out in the streets, selling badges or playing his whistle to the crowds. If so he could go up for his dinner and call on him later. He went down the stairs into the hall again. A cold blast of air flowed from the streets through the open door. He went through the hall towards the backyard where a sack hung in place of the original door of the outside privy, then turned to descend the stairs that led down to the gloom of the basement. He expected the dog to start barking. There was silence. He hesitated in the half-dark, convinced now that Rashers was out. As he waited he noticed, for the first time, a heavy smell. It was not the usual smell of damp earth and decaying woodwork. It was sweet and sickly and, it seemed, intermittent. A thought struck him which made his blood turn to ice. He groped for his matches, lit one, held it above his head. The door to Rashers’ den was closed. He lit another match and slowly opened it. A stench of decay flowed out and choked him. He was certain now.

‘Jesus protect us,’ he said.

Through the window with its broken sheets of cardboard that flapped in the wind a feeble light entered the room. He forced himself to investigate, crossing the floor fearfully, step by step.

The Reverend Ernst Boehm proved both amicable and talkative. He said nothing at all about the notice on the wall. Perhaps he did not see it. He wore the thick glasses of the scholar with lenses that looked like the bottoms of twin jamjars. But he remarked appreciatively on each course as it was served and he praised the wine without reservation. Father O’Sullivan was delighted, Father O’Connor was proud. The huge fire blazed cheerfully in the grate, the dishes and the glasses reflected its red and yellow flames. Their faces above the shining white tablecloth were slightly flushed. St. Brigid’s was enjoying a rare moment of elegance.

Father Boehm spoke interestingly of St. Patrick and early Irish monasticism, referring frequently and often confusingly to the Annals of Innisfallen, the Annals of Clonmacnoise, the Chronicum Scottorum, the Book of Leinster, the Annals of Tigernach, the Annals of the Four Masters. He mentioned Plummer’s Vitae Sanctorum Hibernia and paused to offer some penetrating comments which, however, were difficult to follow. In a lighter mood he praised Kuno Meyer’s recently published Ancient Irish Poetry and, offering them a quotation, pursed his lips and wrinkled his massive forehead as he explored his labyrinthine memory. An abrupt and triumphant exhalation of breath signalled that he had cornered one. In a deep voice which had a slight accent he began a poem of the ninth century called ‘The Hermit’s Song’.

‘I wish, O Son of the Living God

O Ancient eternal King

For a little hut in the wilderness

That it may be my dwelling

Quite near, a beautiful wood

Around it on every side

To nurse manyvoiced birds

Hiding it with its shelter’

The mention of birds and woods caused Father O’Sullivan to glance automatically at the shamrock in the bowl. It was withering fast from the heat of the fire. He quickly returned his attention to the poem, a little puzzled because it did not seem to rhyme.

‘A pleasant Church and, with the linen altar cloth

A dwelling for God from Heaven

Then, shining candles

Above the pure white Scriptures

Raiment and food enough for me

From the King of fair fame

And I to be sitting for a while

Praising God in every place.’

Father Boehm beamed at them. Father O’Connor praised its simplicity and grace.

‘What a pity we cannot all follow the poet,’ he remarked, regretting the need to be involved with the world.

Father Boehm said his sermon would treat of the three great saints of Gaelic Ireland: Patrick, Brigid and Colmcille. Brigid was peculiarly appropriate, he suggested, since she was the patron saint of their parish. Did they know there was a legend that she had once hung her cloak on a sunbeam? That was amusing, of course. But beautiful too. Had it not charm? Father O’Connor agreed to play for benediction on the harmonium. He hoped it was serviceable. It was so long since it had been used. Father Boehm wanted the final hymn to be ‘Hail, Glorious St. Patrick’.

‘With a thunder,’ he enthused, ‘Grandioso. An Anthem of triumph.’

Father O’Connor, thinking of the harmonium, promised to do his best.

It was at that moment the clerk knocked on the door and opened it with a look of anxiety and apology. Father O’Connor was displeased. But the clerk remained fidgeting and looking uneasy so he excused himself and went out to see what was amiss. When he returned Father O’Sullivan asked:

‘Is something wrong?’

‘A child has brought a message and it is somewhat garbled. Someone has been killed—or has been found dead, I cannot be sure which—in Chandlers Court.’

‘Do you know who it is?’

‘No. The message is very unsatisfactory.’

‘One of us had better go,’ Father O’Sullivan decided.

He rose automatically. But Father O’Connor knew his place. He was the junior. There was an important guest to be looked after.

‘No, no, Father—please,’ he said, ‘the duty is mine.’

‘Dear me,’ Father Boehm said.

‘I’ll go immediately,’ Father O’Connor decided.

‘Take a cab,’ Father O’Sullivan advised.

‘Yes. I’ll do that. It will mean I can get back in time for benediction.’

He made his apologies to Father Boehm who waved them away. He quite understood. He consented to a little more wine but studied the exact amount scrupulously and then motioned its sufficiency to Father O’Sullivan.

‘Wine is a blessing in moderation, an imperfection in excess,’ he explained. His genial smile pleased Father O’Sullivan, the attentive host. He listened with meticulous interest while Father Boehm discussed the early Irish Penitentials, referring initially to Zettinger on Cummean, but later and in more detail to Finnian of Clonard.

News of something wrong spread through Chandlers Court like a fire. A body found; a woman drunk, a suicide. By the time Father O’Connor arrived the details were known. People were spread on the pavement outside. They lined the hallway. They leaned over the basement banisters. Down below it was dark, but neighbours had provided candles which gave a wavering light. A man found dead. This was better than the parades and the make-believe. This was the drama of death. They had passed time and again along the street above the cardboarded window. Little knowing. A woman told another that only that morning she had remarked it to her husband. She had wondered, she said. There were women with shawls, subdued children, men with grave faces.

‘This way, Father,’ Hennessy said. He assumed a natural precedence, having been the discoverer. The people made passage.

‘What exactly has happened?’ Father O’Connor asked.

‘I called down to see him about an hour ago. He was dead.’

‘Called down to see whom?’ Father O’Connor asked shortly.

‘Rashers Tierney,’ Hennessy said.

Father O’Connor stopped.

‘It’s not a pleasant sight, Father,’ Hennessy said, ‘he’s been dead for some days.’

Father O’Connor had remembered a figure in candlelight lying on a coke heap. He could smell urine and the reek of spirits. The memory was arrestingly vivid.

‘Show me the way,’ he said, after a moment.

As he passed all their eyes were fixed on him, depending on him. For what he did not know. It was as though they expected him to do something about Death. He shook off the lingering influence of the white cloth, the wine, the learned talk that had so transformed the common room of St. Brigid’s. These were his parishioners. This was the true reality of his world. He was here of his own free choice. He had demanded to be allowed to serve them.

Led by Hennessy he passed between the candles they had set along the stairway and into the dimly lit room. The smell of corruption was overpowering. In the corner furthest from him sacking covered the body. They had decided for decency’s sake to hide it from him. He searched the faces of the few men in the room and recognised Fitz. He looked at the bulging sacking.

Is that he?’

Fitz nodded.

‘He’s been dead for some time?’

‘Several days, Father, by the look of it.’

‘Then there’s little I can do,’ Father O’Connor said. He meant it was too late for the administration of the last rites but they would know that already. Presumably. They nevertheless continued to regard him. Expecting what? The smell was sweet, sickly, unbearable. He could not minister to carrion.

‘Have you notified the police?’

‘We have,’ Fitz said.

There would be an inquest. They would take it to the morgue and bury it God knows how or where. The sooner the better. In the interest of health, if nothing else.

These were the ones who refused to trust him because they thought he had tried to break their strikes when all he intended was to give a little charity to the old and the destitute. They expected him as a priest to lead a prayer for the dead boilerman. That was their right. But he would do more than that. He motioned to Hennessy.

‘Remove the sacking.’

They had not expected it. He saw them looking uneasily at Fitz, waiting for him to answer for them.

‘He’s in a very bad way, Father,’ Fitz said, ‘the rats . . .’

Delicacy stopped him from finishing. Hennessy hung back. Father O’Connor removed his hat and handed it to one of the men. He had decided what to do. He went across the room, bent down, began gently to pull down the sacking. He sweated, strangling his impulse to cry out.

The head had been savaged by rats. The nose, the ears, the cheeks, the eyes had been torn away. The hands had been eaten. He forced himself to be calm.

‘Is this Tierney?’ he asked quietly.

‘It is, Father.’

‘And what is this?’

Hennessy came over obediently and looked. His face was a silver-grey colour.

‘It’s his dog, Father.’

For the moment they had forgotten all about that. The animal’s ribs were etched starkly against the taut skin of its carcass. Its discoloured teeth from which the lips had fallen away, wore the wide grin of death. The rats had ripped open its belly and exposed its organs.

In a voice that had found a new tone of gentleness Father O’Connor said:

‘It isn’t fitting to lay the brute beast and the baptised body together.’

Hennessy understood. He bent down and took the dog by the forelegs, dragging it slowly across the floor and steering it into the darkness of the far corner. Father O’Connor went down on his knees. The rest knelt one by one. He took a small bottle from his pocket and, making the sign of his blessing, gravely sprinkled with holy water what decay and the rats had yet left of the boilerman Rashers Tierney. He prayed silently once again, aware of how often he had failed, for the grace to know how to serve without pride and without self. He prayed, as was his way, to a crown of thorns and a pair of outstretched palms, his Christ of Compassion who always looked like the statue that had once stood in Miss Gilchrist’s ward.

It was some time before he remembered the others. He had excluded them from what he was about and that was wrong. Taking the mother of pearl rosary from his pocket he said:

‘Let us pray together for the repose of his soul.’

He began the usual decade of the rosary. At first only those in the room responded. Then to his surprise, for he had forgotten they were there, he heard the responses being taken up by those outside. The sound grew and filled the house. From those lining the stairway outside and the landing and the hallway above, voices rose and fell in rhythmical waves. The sound flowed about him, filled him, lifted him up like a great tide. He looked down at the ravaged body without fear and without revulsion. Age and the rot of death were brothers, for rich and poor alike. Neither intellect nor ignorance could triumph over them. What was spread on the straw before him was no more than the common mystery, the everyday fate, the cruel heart of the world.

The prayers finished. There was one more thing to do. He did it without hesitation and without reasoning why. He joined what was left of the two half-eaten hands across the body and wrapped his mother’s rosary beads about them. He pulled the sack back into position. He rose to his feet.

The man who had been minding his hat returned it to him and he put it on. There was nothing further to be done.

‘God bless you all,’ he said to the assembled men. They made a way for him through the crowd and saw him to his cab. At St. Brigid’s he had time to be sick and then to wash his hands and face before climbing to the organ loft to play for benediction.

While he was still playing they arrived with a stretcher and a tarpaulin and took Rashers to the morgue. A policeman took the dog away in a sack and saved himself a lot of unnecessary trouble by quietly dumping it in the river. Hennessy went up to his dinner but when it was put before him found he was unable to eat it. His wife had a rare moment of understanding and took it away without reproof. Hennessy said nothing further either but went down to the backyard and hid himself behind the shed of the privy and wept because he felt his own good fortune had led him shamefully into neglect of Rashers.

By that time the congregation in St. Brigid’s, urged on by a gesticulating Father Boehm, were singing ‘Hail Glorious St. Patrick’ with great fervour and piety. Father O’Connor, doing the best he could with the wheezing instrument at his disposal, listened and felt he had drawn a little nearer to them and, through them, to the God and the way of eternal salvation he so earnestly believed in.