Strumpet City

CHAPTER FIVE

Winter was always the worst time in that city. In autumn the trees along suburban roads were venerable but elegant; in winter they were gnarled and ragged ancients, with rheumatic knuckles and bones. The large houses became draughty and hard to heat; the young children on their way to Miss Tieler’s ballet and dancing class in Molesworth Hall wore gaiters over thick stockings and top-coats over jerseys and shawls, so that when they alighted from trams and cabs they were recognisable because of their enormous size. In the mornings just at the breakfast hour the poor searched diligently in the ashbins of the well-to-do for half-burnt cinders and carried sacks and cans so that as much as possible of the fuel might be salvaged. The ashbin children were pinched and wiry and usually barefooted. They lived on the cast-offs. They came each morning from the crowded rooms in the cast-off houses of the Rich; elegant Georgian buildings which had grown old and had been discarded. The clothes they wore had been cast off by their parents, who had bought them as cast-offs in the second-hand shops in Little Mary Street or Winetavern Street. If the well-to-do had stopped casting off for even a little while the children would have gone homeless and fireless and naked. But nobody really thought about that. These things Were.

It was a bad time for the carters, rising by candlelight, shivering on their way to work before six o’clock, wondering would there be ice on the streets to keep the horses in the stables. And for the building trade, where every other day the weather became ugly and there was broken time. The dockers hated winter. They huddled in groups on the quayside and waited through interminable mornings for ships that had been delayed.

It was a bad time all round. The east wind beat in from the sea and drove under the arches of the river, so that when the gulls rose with a cry from the water it hurled them backwards in a high, swift curve. The Farrells’ house, where Mary continued to stay, quivered often at night because of the great beating of the sea. She had grown used to its sound while with the Bradshaws, but here it was nearer and more violent. Frequently, when she walked along the front in the mornings, she found the beach strewn with driftwood and debris. After a while she began to join others in collecting what could be used for fuel. At times, when she sat listening to the sea and the wind, her thoughts turned to the house in Kingstown and she wondered if Mrs. Bradshaw still complained of the draughts from the folding doors.

On one of the bleakest nights the great coal-stack in the foundry went on fire. Fitz, who was on duty, was called out a little after midnight by Carrington the foreman. At first there were no flames and the smoke could not be seen in the pitch darkness. But both recognised the smell, a particular odour which left a thick taste on the tongue. They traced it to the lower yard, after much uncertain groping and guessing. The smoke was heavy in the yard and hit them so suddenly that they both swallowed it and coughed. From the darkness beside Fitz, Carrington’s voice said: ‘It’s the coal-stack.’

It had happened before. Carrington, wondering if he should put the emergency routine into operation, hesitated.

‘I wonder how bad it is?’

‘We won’t know until we disturb it,’ Fitz said, ‘and when we do that it may be too late.’

‘I’ll see about getting the brigade,’ Carrington decided. ‘Take out enough of the furnace crew to rig up the lighting set and see about mustering extra help.’

A little later the city, huddled behind drenched housefronts, stirred to hear the clangour of bells in the empty streets. As the first engine swung into the yard the men were already moving the lighting set into position. A cloud of smoke, bent at an angle by the wind, showed up blackly.

‘Why the hell wouldn’t it happen in summer,’ one of the men said.

They had shovels ready and were crouching in the meagre shelter of the lamp supports. Sleet slanted intermittently, a curtain between the darkness and the lamps. The brigade men were in position with hoses ready.

The foreman had some words with the chief before he ordered the labourers forward. They dug gingerly, testing for the source of the fire and leaving small mounds of coal about the main stack. After a while one of the men, digging deeper than the rest, sprang aside and called out. A small tongue of flame licked upwards. Carrington said to Fitz:

‘You’d better call out help. We’ll need carters and more men to dig.’

Fitz found the list in the time office, where the timekeeper, half asleep over the fire, jumped up in alarm at his entrance.

‘Blast you anyway,’ he said. ‘I thought for a minute you were Carrington.’

‘I’ve come for the emergency list,’ Fitz said, ‘the main coal-stack is on fire.’

The timekeeper produced it from a drawer.

‘We use the carters from Doggett & Co.,’ he said. ‘Barney Mulhall is the man to see first.’

‘Have you his address?’

‘Chandlers Court,’ the timekeeper said, his eyes searching down the list. ‘Here you are—number three.’

Fitz took his bicycle and headed out into the streets. He was the only traveller. The city was dead and dark and windswept. In addition to the carters there would be labourers needed. He decided to call on Pat Bannister, with whom he had been sharing a room since Mary had gone to the Farrells. Pat was out of work because for the moment the storage yard of Nolan & Keyes was packed to capacity. He decided to call on Farrell too: he was still being ignored by the stevedores. There was at least a night’s work in it for each of them. The double line of tram-tracks gleamed wetly as he turned across them into Chandlers Court and found number three with difficulty. The hall door was closed over, but there was no lock and he pushed it in with his shoulder. A dog barked from the basement as he entered the hall. He climbed two flights. It was impossible not to make a noise on the bare boards and to stumble now and then on the uneven stairs. The walls in the dim light of the oil lamp he had taken from his bicycle were greasy and peeling. The smell of communal living lay heavily and unpleasantly on the landing. He knocked at the door of the two pair back and noticed that the paint was cracking and blistered as though there had been a fire.

After a while there were movements and a deep voice asked: ‘Who is it?’

‘Emergency call,’ Fitz answered, ‘Morgan’s Foundry.’

‘Hold your horses,’ the voice acknowledged.

Fitz waited patiently. Somewhere above a baby had begun to cry. It was remote yet it transformed everything. There was more here than darkness, than decay, than evil smells. Behind each of these peeling doors, from the ground to the top, there was a home. A man who was naked except for a pair of trousers which he held in position with one hand, opened the door and said: ‘Step in.’

Fitz hesitated.

‘Do as you’re told,’ the man insisted. He was obviously used to laying down the law. Fitz noticed his bulk and height. But there was a pleasant note in his voice. He was not a bully.

Mulhall made way for him and he entered the room. The atmosphere was close, but snugly so. The only illumination was the red glow of a lamp which stood on the mantelpiece before a statue of the Sacred Heart. A yellow circle of light wavered on the ceiling above it. As Mulhall pulled on his shirt there were movements in the far corner. A match gleamed and a gas ring threw a blue light. Mulhall, having pulled his braces over his huge shoulders, lit a candle and said:

‘What the hell are you at now?’

‘Keep your voice quiet,’ the woman whispered. She was elderly. Fitz knew by the voice and by her stooping movements in the combined light of candle and gas ring.

‘That’s herself,’ Mulhall said to Fitz, pulling on his socks.

The woman said: ‘You’ll waken the child.’

Mulhall chuckled deeply and said to Fitz: ‘The child is in the bed beyond there. He’s fifteen and nearly as big as I am.’

Fitz guessed at, rather than saw, a single bed in the far corner.

‘What’s your name?’ Mulhall asked.

‘Fitzpatrick,’ Fitz said.

There were sounds near the gas ring; the thump of a kettle, the rattle of cups.

‘She’s making tea,’ Mulhall confided. He was having trouble with one of his boots.

‘It won’t take a minute,’ the woman said, ‘and you’ll be glad you had it when you face the street outside,’ Then she said: ‘You might ask the young man to take the weight off his legs.’

Fitz could see them better now. Mulhall had thick grey hair above a heavy forehead. The woman, a coat thrown about her shoulders, had once been tall. Her movements were gentle. In the candlelight her shadow bobbed from wall to wall as she put cups on the table and cut bread.

‘Sit over,’ she said.

‘Dear God,’ Mulhall protested, ‘a bloody coal-stack on fire—and she makes tea.’

‘Take it in your hand and swallow it.’ She listened to the wind for a moment and added: ‘It’s a terrible night.’

The second bed was in the angle between a small window and the far wall. Fitz could see it better now. There were movements from it and a boy sat up, blinking. He had a handsome face with dark hair tumbled about the forehead.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Emergency call,’ Mulhall answered.

‘I knew you’d wake him,’ the woman said. She turned to Fitz and explained: ‘The child is in the parcels department in the Tramway. He has a six o’clock start.’

The tea was sweet and hot—too hot. Mulhall emptied his into a saucer and drank it that way.

‘Do you need extra help?’

‘We could do with some,’ Fitz said.

‘Glory be to God,’ his wife said, ‘you’re surely not thinking of the child?’

Mulhall said to her, ‘Will you let me talk, woman.’ He glared at her for a moment over his shoulder. Then he spoke to Fitz.

‘There’s a poor divil upstairs with a wife and a couple of children. He could do with a night’s work.’

‘Is it Mr. Hennessy?’ his wife asked. Again Fitz noted that she was a quiet-spoken woman.

‘The Toucher Hennessy,’ Mulhall confirmed.

‘Then they’ve four children,’ his wife corrected.

‘Holy God,’ Mulhall said, ‘that woman is like a rabbit.’

‘I’ll go up and get him,’ Fitz agreed.

They left down their cups and while Mulhall set off to alert the carters Fitz climbed the remaining stairs. He was now in the attic, on a narrow landing where the ceiling was so low that he stooped. The baby was crying again when he knocked. A woman’s voice responded.

‘Who is it?’

‘We have a night’s work in the foundry, if Mr. Hennessy will take it,’ Fitz shouted.

There was a long interval. He heard whispering inside. Then the woman shouted: ‘He wants to know what kind of work it is.’

Fitz explained and there was another interlude. Then the door opened and a small skinny man looked up into his face.

‘I hope you’ll pardon the preliminary enquiry,’ he said with great politeness, ‘but what class of work is involved?’

‘Digging coal,’ Fitz said.

‘Aw God, wouldn’t that vex you now. I’ve no shovel.’ Fitz thought there was a note of relief in the voice.

‘They’ll give you a shovel,’ the woman shouted, ‘won’t youse, mister?’

‘That’s right,’ Fitz said, ‘we can supply a shovel.’

The man considered this. Then he asked cautiously:

‘Is there any climbing?’

‘What has that to do with it?’ Fitz asked.

‘I’ve no head for heights,’ Hennessy said.

‘Don’t listen to a bloody word he says, mister,’ the woman screamed, ‘he’s only acting the old soldier.’

‘There’s no climbing,’ Fitz said.

With obvious lack of enthusiasm for the prospect of facing the raw and laborious night, Hennessy turned up the collar of his coat and cast a despairing glance back at the room.

‘All right—I’ll go,’ he said.

He followed Fitz on to the street and set off in the direction of the foundry. His figure was huddled against the cold, his pace reluctant. Fitz went to his own place to rouse Pat Bannister and then to Farrell’s. He waited in the kitchen while Farrell dressed, all the time conscious that behind the door to the left of the fireplace Mary lay sleeping. He was torn between his desire to speak to her and his reluctance to disturb her. Before he could make up his mind Farrell had joined him and they went down to the foundry together.

As they walked Farrell said: ‘I won’t forget it to you for coming down for me.’

‘Who else would I call on?’ Fitz said, easily.

But he was shocked at the change in Farrell. He had not seen much of him since moving out to make room for Mary. Most of the time Farrell had been out searching for work. Or, if he was in, he had remained in his own room. He was not simply out of work. He was a marked man, barred by one stevedore after another, a man who had tried on his own to break a highly organised system of petty extortion.

‘You haven’t had any luck?’ Fitz asked.

‘Nor won’t,’ Farrell said.

‘What about Larkin?’

‘There’s been no word.’

‘Maybe there will be, soon.’

‘What can Larkin do, when the rest didn’t stand by me?’

Very little, Fitz thought. The shipowners gave each unloading job to the stevedore on contract. Who the stevedores employed after that, or how they paid them, was not the shipowners’ concern. The custom of paying the dockers in public houses had been accepted for years. It seemed impossible to Fitz that the lonely, elderly man walking beside him could alter it. There were too many who were jobless and willing to take his place. Farrell was beginning to look at it that way too. It had been painful to see his eyes light up at the prospect of a casual night’s work.

Farrell walked in silence for a while. Then he said, more hopefully:

‘What’s the foreman at the foundry like?’

‘Carrington is his name. He’s as hard as nails, but he has no favourites. All he cares for is a good worker.’

‘Does he job casuals often?’

‘Two or three times a week, usually for a day at a stretch.’

‘I’ll go out of my way to bring myself to his notice tonight,’ Farrell said. ‘I’m finished as a docker, anyway.’

They worked without rest through a night of continuing sleet and wind; the labourers digging and hauling, the carters loading, dumping, re-loading. Steam rose in dense clouds beneath the water from the hoses and fanned about the yard so that the sleet itself tasted of cinder and ash and the clothes of the labouring men smelled strongly and sourly. At last it became so dense that the men digging on the leeward side could work no longer. It had become impossible to breathe as the wind bent it downwards in an impenetrable fog.

Carrington, who was directing the carters, left off and came over to Fitz. It was a habit of his. Fitz was his unofficial deputy.

‘What now?’ he asked.

Fitz had been thinking about it. They had tried taking the hoses off for intervals and digging when the steam cleared. But when the hoses stopped the strong wind fanned the fire into life again.

‘We could try screening the fire and see if we can dig it out.’

There were large screens in No. 2 house, which were used in summer to cut off the heavy draught when both ends of the house had to be left open because of the heat.

Carrington felt it was worth trying.

Fitz gathered some labourers and half a dozen carters, one of whom was Mulhall. He set the furnace hands disassembling the screens so that the carts could carry them to the yard. While they were working Mulhall said to him:

‘Are you deputy gaffer here?’

‘No. Just senior hand.’

‘Union man?’

‘National Union of Dockers,’ Fitz said.

‘Same as us. Is the whole job union?’

‘Half and half.’

‘Ever met Larkin?’

‘No,’ Fitz said.

‘He fixed an overtime rate some time ago—ninepence an hour. It’s in the carters’ agreement.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Fitz said. He was a furnace hand. The carters had their own set conditions. Lately, one section or another of the carters was always in trouble.

‘Maybe you’d ask the head bottle-washer,’ Mulhall said, then backed up and drove off. They got the screens into position and after a while they shut off the hoses. The wind no longer had direct access to the fire, but it bundled over the top and caught the coal at its higher level. The steam too, was clear of the ground and the men could work in the lee of the stack. They loaded the carts without respite. Meanwhile other workmen had begun to dig towards the ignited coal. Fitz saw Farrell among them, working steadily and easily, the relaxed technique of the docker showing in every movement of his body. He was one of the small number selected by Carrington for a special and difficult operation. Fitz was glad. It would give Farrell hope—and for the moment hope had become his desperate need. Pat Bannister was among them too, working steadily, absorbed as he always was, in the job that confronted him. Further away, in among the general collection, Hennessy stood idle, with a long-handled trimmer’s shovel which was almost as tall as himself.

‘Don’t kill yourself,’ Fitz said as he passed him.

‘I’m a delicate framed man,’ Hennessy said, ‘and I’m crucified with rheumatism of the back.’

‘You’d better look as though you were working,’ Fitz advised him. ‘If Carrington puts his eye on you he’ll give you your papers.’

Hennessy sighed and dug his shovel into the coal.

The night passed slowly. As they grew exhausted it took on a dreamlike quality; the figures of men bent under the lamps; the sleet thickened and slackened, died and found new reserves; the scrape of shovels and the creaking of carts filled the darkness incessantly. For a while Fitz found himself beside Carrington and remembered Mulhall’s enquiry.

‘The carters want to know what’s the freight?’

Carrington thought and then said:

‘Sixpence an hour, I suppose.’

‘They seem to expect overtime rate.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Ninepence.’

‘My bloody eye,’ Carrington said.

His tone angered Fitz, but it did not seem to be the moment for argument. In the upper end of the yard a new coal-stack was rising as the men moved more and more coal.

‘Better keep them hosing as they build the new stack,’ Carrington said, ‘otherwise we may have another bloody fire on our hands.’

‘We’ll need the reserve water supply,’ Fitz said.

‘That’s all right. Go ahead and turn it on.’

‘Who’ll look after the hosing?’

‘There’s a couple of likely looking casuals. I’ll get one of them to take charge.’

Carrington’s eyes searched among the working figures. He walked over towards the group near him and singled out Farrell.

‘You,’ he said, ‘what have you worked at?’

‘Docker,’ Farrell said.

‘Name?’

‘Jim Farrell.’

‘Out of work?’

‘This past few months.’

Carrington hesitated. Then he said, dismissing Farrell, ‘All right, carry on.’

When Farrell had gone Carrington turned to Fitz.

‘I know who he is now. I couldn’t use him.’

‘Why not?’

‘Dangerous. That’s the fellow who tried to start some trouble with the stevedores.’

Carrington shouted again. ‘Hey, you,’ and another man approached.

‘I’ll turn on the reserve water cock,’ Fitz said.

Fitz climbed into the top gallery of No. 4 house where in a wing overlooking the river the reserve pump was located. The bare metal was painfully cold to touch and the wind, bullying fiercely through the glassless apertures, had almost scoured the floor clear of coal-dust. Fitz threw his weight against the release wheel. It was an unreliable piece of mechanism at the best of times.

He had carried the image of Farrell with him and the words of Carrington remained in his head as he waited. Farrell’s moment of rebellion was known now along the length of the dockside. They were going to hound him, even people like Carrington, who had no conscious determination to do so. It was a comfortless city.

Below the catwalks and weblike ladders the men still on duty sweated over the furnaces. Here there was a forsaken, steel-cold emptiness, a half-lit gloom. To his right the river was grey and wrinkled under the wind, the waiting ships as yet not clearly discernible. Fitz noted with surprise that it was almost dawn. He imagined he could smell it: a distinctive odour of metal and river and many cargoes, the cold and hungry smell of the dockside. A ship hooted, getting up steam. That meant an early tide. The sound hit the iron roof above him, then drifted off across streets and alleyways, startling the sleepy gulls and foraging cats. It had barely died away when the pipes near Fitz lurched suddenly and began to dance. The pump was working. He took his time negotiating the ladders. They were narrow and dangerous for someone who had been eighteen hours on duty.

When Fitz reported to Carrington again it was morning. The lighting set had been dismantled, the men looked haggard and hungry. Looking at them as they worked, Fitz was filled suddenly with pity. The wind and the cold had been an unremitting hardship, the steam and ash had attacked their eyes and added their own brand of torture. Yet except for Mulhall’s enquiry they continued to work without questioning what they were to get at the end of it. For most of them anyway, anything earned would be regarded as a godsend.

‘How about payment?’ he asked Carrington.

‘I’ll leave the list with the pay clerk before I go home. Tell them to call back about four o’dock.’

‘What am I to tell them about the overtime rate?’

‘Up in Nellie’s room,’ Carrington said.

‘There’ll be trouble.’

‘The casuals don’t matter—they’ll take what they’re given. The carters are more dangerous. But they have no case. They’re only entitled to overtime if they’ve worked for us during the day. These didn’t. They were working for Doggett & Co.’

‘I hope they understand that piece of reasoning,’ Fitz said.

‘There’s nothing they can do about it, anyway,’ Carrington said. ‘They’re not employed normally by us, so they can’t very well go on strike.’

Fitz went home with Pat Bannister. They made tea, washed and lay down to sleep. Meanwhile the rest of the city got into the swing of yet another day.

‘You wished to see me?’ Father O’Connor said.

His new parish priest, Father Giffley, looked around and said testily: ‘Please don’t stand with the door knob clasped in your fist—it’s a habit I detest.’

He saw Father O’Connor’s flush of embarrassment and added: ‘It lets the raw air into the room. Come in and sit down.’

He was seated in a leather armchair with a high back, his feet stretched out to the fire. On a table, which for comfort he had drawn over to the fireplace, the remains of his breakfast lay scattered: the peeled skin of an orange, a porridge bowl with its milky residue; a plate with egg stains and the stringy rinds of bacon.

Father O’Connor sat down facing him. Through a high window opposite he could see the walled yard at the back of the church and a section of railway line. The Church of St. Brigid lay near the railway and the canal. It was an unattractive view which the overcast sky and the spattering sleet did nothing to improve. The glass wore a thick grime, the inescapable grime of the neighbourhood.

‘Yes,’ Father Giffley said. ‘I wanted to see you—would you care for some whiskey?’

‘No, thank you,’ Father O’Connor said.

‘A follower of Father Mathew?’

‘No, Father.’ He was about to add that eleven o’clock in the morning seemed a little on the early side for heavy spirits, but realised in time that that might be interpreted as a reflection on his superior’s habits. He found them disturbing.

‘Then you might pour some for me,’ Father Giffley ordered. ‘The bottle is at your elbow.’

He had grey, spiky hair and a red face which the heat of the fire had roused to a steaming glow. Father O’Connor poured the whiskey and shuddered at the smell. In a few weeks he had grown to associate the smell of whiskey and the smell of peppermint sweets. His superior’s breath was always heavy with one or the other—or both.

‘You treat it very gingerly, very gingerly indeed,’ Father Giffley boomed at him. ‘Liberality, man. Don’t stint it.’

Father O’Connor withdrew the glass he had been in the act of extending to his superior and poured in a further supply.

‘That’s better,’ Father Giffley said. ‘That’s a more likely looking conqueror of a raw morning.’ He screwed up his eyes, regarding the glass with approval. He had water beside him with which he diluted the sizable measure. Then he drank, made an approving sound with his lips and pursued:

‘You have been with me for some weeks, Father . . .’

‘Six,’ Father O’Connor supplied.

‘Six,’ Father Giffley repeated. The number seemed to give him material for reflection. He gazed for quite a while into the fire, his eyes bulging and bloodshot. He had the habit, when thinking, of grunting and breathing laboriously.

‘The thing that puzzles me is how you came here.’

‘It was my own wish, Father.’

‘So I have been told—but why?’

‘I felt the life in a rich parish too easy. It was not what God called me to the priesthood for.’

‘Do you find the work here more . . . elevating?’

‘It is more arduous, Father. It requires more humility.’

Father Giffley stared at him over his whiskey and left it down without tasting it.

‘Ah—I see. Humility. So that’s the coveted virtue.’

‘I beg your pardon, Father?’

Father Giffley made a sound of impatience. This time he compensated for his previous abstinence and almost emptied the glass.

‘You are full of polite catch-phrases. You beg my pardon; you ask may you come in; I offer you whiskey and you act as though I had told you a bawdy story. I asked you to see me this morning because, frankly, I found it quite impossible to understand what brought you here.’

‘I don’t follow you, Father.’

Father O’Connor was trembling, not with rage, but confusion. His superior terrified him.

‘I am bound to tell you that if you think you’ve come to a good place for the exercise of your priestly office you’ve made a stupid mistake. It is my duty as your parish priest to put you on the right track.’

‘I was not aware that I was displeasing you,’ Father O’Connor said.

‘Displeasing me? Not a bit. Thank God I have not lived in the stink of one slum parish after another without finding ways and means of insulating myself. I am merely warning you of the situation. You have met Father O’Sullivan?’

Father O’Connor had. It was Father O’Sullivan, not Father Giffley, who had instructed him in the parish routine, shown him where vestments and vessels were kept, wished him a happy stay in the parish and hoped he would like the parish priest. He had said that with a sad, shy smile which betrayed that he found Father Giffley just a little bit odd. He was a stout, grey-haired man himself, much given to vigils at the Altar of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. After that first, routine exposition of the workings of St. Brigid’s his conversations with Father O’Connor, though pleasant and friendly, were few.

‘You must study Father O’Sullivan,’ Father Giffley said. ‘While you are here you must follow his example, not that of your parish priest.’

Father O’Connor failed to hide his embarrassment.

‘Really . . . Father,’ he managed.

‘I am trying to help you.’

Screwing up his courage, Father O’Connor faced his superior and said: ‘There is one way in which you could help me very much.’

‘I could?’

‘If you could try to like me a little,’ Father O’Connor said. ‘You make me feel useless and unwanted.’

How true it was came freshly to his mind as he said it. Father Giffley had treated him with contempt from the very first day. He had treated him unfairly too, giving him the seven o’clock mass to say each morning without a single respite and taking the ten o’clock mass himself. Father O’Connor had accepted it in a spirit of self-abasement and obedience. The conscious act of submission bore him up as he rose morning after morning in the raw, high-ceilinged bedroom.

‘Is it merely politeness you want? The work here demands slightly different accomplishments.’

‘I had hoped for your guidance in that.’

‘Guidance,’ Father Giffley repeated. He had sat down again and this time he addressed the word to the fire.

‘I had hoped so.’

‘You are a hypocrite, Father.’

Wondering, not for the first time, if his superior was mad, Father O’Connor said:

‘I don’t know why you should say so.’

‘Because you consider me a drunkard.’

‘Oh no, Father.’

‘Yes, indeed, Father.’

Father Giffley took his glass to the whiskey bottle and this time he poured for himself.

‘It’s almost thirty years since I first came to the slums. I didn’t come like you, looking for the dirty work, I came because I was sent. They knew of my weakness for good society and good conversation. I suppose they thought they’d cure me by giving me the faces of the destitute to console me and the minds of the ignorant to entertain me. And the tenements to drink tea in. Have you any idea, Father, how many tenements there are in this gracious city?’

‘Too many, Father, I realise that.’

‘Too many is a generalisation which is good enough for the pious horror one expresses in the pulpit. There are almost six thousand of them and they accommodate about eighty-seven thousand people. I have lived in the centre of that cesspool for thirty years.’

Father Giffley sat on the edge of the table and gave a smile which was a spontaneous flash of triumph.

‘I have at least been able to minister to them without feelings of pious condescension.’

‘Are you suggesting that I . . .’

‘I am drawing your attention to a possibility and reminding you that your office is to serve all equally, right down to the most illiterate poor gawm at my altar rails.’

Father Giffley, having used the possessive pronoun with intent, rose and banged the bell, summoning the housekeeper to clear the table.

That is all I wanted to see you about.’

He went to the window and transferred his interest to the railway signals.

At four in the afternoon a new night had almost begun. The sky outside the bedroom which Fitz was sharing with Pat Bannister was already dark. In the half-light Fitz saw Pat’s shoulder above the bedclothes. He got up and shook him.

‘Four o’clock.’

Pat squinted at him and realised the significance of what he had said.

‘Thanks be to God,’ he answered, throwing back the clothes, ‘we’ve a few bob to collect.’

They went down to the foundry and found Hennessy and Farrell at the gate. There had been an argument. They had been paid at sixpence an hour. Mulhall was in the office demanding ninepence. Pat went to the pay office and was given six shillings for his twelve-hour stretch. Fitz, being on the regular payroll, was not due to draw his wages until the following day.

‘Overtime rate will be paid to our regular men,’ the pay clerk assured him, ‘it’s only the casuals who are in dispute.’

‘Our agreement is ninepence,’ Mulhall said.

‘I’ve already been into that,’ the pay clerk answered.

‘So has Jim Larkin,’ Mulhall said. ‘He negotiated ninepence. I’m going to report this.’

‘You mustn’t threaten me with Mr. Larkin. We have nothing to say to him.’

‘Maybe he’ll have something to say to you,’ Mulhall said. Then he took the six shillings which the clerk had already set before him and walked out.

‘What about a drink?’ Pat suggested while they were still arguing at the gate.

‘Not for me,’ Farrell said.

Fitz said: ‘Come on. I owe you money.’

‘What about you?’ Pat said to Mulhall.

‘I was thinking of reporting to Larkin . . .’ Mulhall said, tempted.

‘Have a jar and then report to him.’

‘Larkin hates the smell of drink,’ Pat said. ‘He told me once I’d live to see the grass growing over the ruins of Guinness’s Brewery.’

The thought seemed to depress Hennessy.

‘A little drink is no more than our modest due, gentlemen,’ he urged.

They went together, striding purposefully along the tram-rattling streets, conscious of the fact that they had money enough for once to meet the needs of the occasion. Only Hennessy lagged behind.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘have a little mercy on a man with a rheumaticky back.’ They slowed down and he joined them again. Mulhall guffawed and said:

‘If you left the woman alone now and then you’d find the walking easier.’

‘It’s the only amusement available to the penniless,’ Hennessy said good-humouredly.

As they turned off the main street Fitz slipped some money to Farrell so that he would not be embarrassed when his turn came to buy a drink. They walked between tall decaying houses. Candlelight and lamplight predominated in the tenement windows, with here and there a gas mantle distinguishable by its whiter glow. A lamplighter just ahead of them went methodically about his work, reaching upwards with his long, light cane and leaving a glowing chain of lamps in his wake. The iron railings which bordered the houses took on a wet sheen. Fitz watched him. The lighting of lamps always fascinated him. He said generally:

‘When I was a youngster I always wanted to be a lamplighter.’

‘Does he work for the Gas Company?’ Pat asked.

‘No, the Corporation,’ Hennessy answered knowledgeably. ‘It’s a pensionable job. He nearly lost it once.’

‘Who is he?’ Mulhall asked.

‘Baggy Conlon,’ Hennessy supplied. ‘He’s very fond of a sup and one night after he lit the lamps he went into a pub and fell into company. After a few hours he got stupid drunk and forgot he was after lighting the lamps already. He kept saying he had his work to do and they mustn’t detain him. At last when he came out and saw the lamps were lighted he gets the mistaken notion that it’s putting them out he should be. So off he starts and has half the bloody city in darkness before he’s arrested on a charge of public mischief.’

Then they turned into Cotter’s public house and called for hot whiskeys.

The rags and the beard arrested Father O’Connor’s attention. The travelling sack and the cord about the waist reminded him of pictures of pilgrims in some childhood book. He touched Rashers on the shoulder. Rashers, absorbed in his search of the large ashbin, straightened slowly and looked around. When he saw it was a priest he raised his hat. Father O’Connor fumbled in his pocket and gave him a shilling.

‘The blessings of God and His Holy Mother on you,’ Rashers said.

‘And on you,’ Father O’Connor returned.

He looked down the street. The public clock told him it was a little early for his return to St. Brigid’s, so he lingered.

‘Did you salvage anything of value,’ he asked, ‘a piece of clothing, perhaps?’

‘Not in this lot,’ Rashers said. ‘I wouldn’t be looking here for clothes.’

‘Not . . . food?’ Father O’Connor asked, the thought upsetting him.

‘Sometimes you’d find food,’ Rashers said, ‘but very seldom.’

‘And why not?’

Father O’Connor’s dullness of imagination shocked Rashers, but the shilling claimed indulgence.

‘Because this is a theatrical bin,’ Rashers explained. For a moment Father O’Connor was lost. Then he realised that the windowless side wall behind him belonged to the Royal Theatre and, presumably, the bin was an extra-mural property.

‘I understand,’ he said, looking skywards, so as to hide his smile.

The grey sky, unsmiling, looked back at him. It was only the merest strip above the narrow street, yet it was big enough to contain all the despair of the winter city. Father O’Connor lowered his eyes quickly. The sky, the long, wet, unrelieved wall, the cramped street, the forsaken cobbles, they combined about this ragged figure and turned him suddenly into a denial of God. Should a man smell of filth and scrape in bins?

He said, ‘And what has a theatrical bin to offer?’

‘Cigars and cigarette butts, half smoked at the intervals,’ Rashers said. ‘They light them up and the bell goes and they throw them half finished away. There’s good smoking in a theatrical bin.’ He dug into his pockets.

‘There’s a sample collection,’ he said, displaying his goods.

Father O’Connor pretended interest. He felt the muscles about his mouth tightening and turned his head quickly. Perhaps Father Giffley was right. Perhaps he should not look too closely at things until he had learned the trick of controlling his face.

‘You did well,’ he said.

‘I did better, Father,’ Rashers added. He fumbled and displayed another find.

‘What’s that?’ Father O’Connor asked.

‘It’s a broken ’cello string,’ Rashers said, ‘which is a class of musical instrument.’

Yearling came to mind, smelling of whiskey and with red cheeks. Father O’Connor thought of conversation and smiling, well-mannered people. He tried to dismiss them. It was a world he had turned his back on.

‘Is it useful?’ he asked.

Rashers extended the string to its full length.

‘That’s the best cure for rheumatism in the land,’ he said. ‘I know many a carter will give me twopence for it. Have a look at it.’

But Father O’Connor moved a pace away, declining. The string had come from a dustbin and the hands which offered it for scrutiny were filthy. Rashers, noting the refusal, continued:

‘The carter humps thirty-five tons of coal a week, up and down stairs, in every weather. After a while he gets a dose of rheumatism from the wet sacks. And the only good cure for it is to tie a ’cello string around your waist, right against the skin.’

An older man might have smiled. Father O’Connor did not.

‘They should have more sense,’ he said reprovingly.

‘It’s some virtue in the gut,’ Rashers explained. ‘It’s not there when it’s new, but when the sweat of the fingers has soaked into it, it has the power to draw out the poison. That’s why only used strings is any use.’

‘Nonsense,’ Father O’Connor said. Rashers said nothing. But he took care putting the string back in his pocket The wind caught the two of them, fluttering Rashers’ coat and causing O’Connor to grasp at his hat.

‘We’ll both have rheumatism if we stand here,’ Father O’Connor said. Rashers, realising he was being dismissed, touched his forehead and shuffled away.

Father O’Connor went in the direction of the main thoroughfare, distressed by the poverty which reached out to him from every side, and wondering again what he could do to relieve those who suffered it. The obvious thing was to form a charitable society. Father Giffley had never done so—why, it was hard to understand. Furthermore, Father Giffley would be hard to approach. It would be necessary to beg permission.

That consideration, he determined, must not stop him. He must not let human pride undermine him; he must suffer rebuffs in a spirit of complete humility. But he would need advice and counsel. It occurred to Father O’Connor that the Bradshaws could help him. He considered the problem carefully, weighing his resolve to keep away from comfort and gracious company against his need for guidance and help, a little fearful as he wrestled with it that he might be merely seeking a justification for a visit that was bound to be refreshing and enjoyable. Father O’Connor walked and thought for some time until at last, almost without knowing how it happened, he found himself sitting in the Kingstown tram.

‘About our ninepence an hour,’ Mulhall said, as they were having their second drink.

‘Carrington says you can do nothing,’ Fitz said.

‘Neither can we,’ Farrell said. ‘We don’t work for the foundry. They have us by the short hairs.’

‘I have an idea,’ Mulhall said quietly. ‘They tried it in Belfast.’

‘I wouldn’t be gone on anything they try in Belfast,’ Hennessy said.

The hot whiskey had brought a glow to his cheeks. His eyes were brighter. They searched the public house as he spoke, a pair of magpie eyes that gathered all the scraps and gossip of living.

‘I heard tell of a raffle someone ran once,’ Hennessy explained. ‘The first prize was a week’s holiday in Belfast. And do you know what the second prize was?’

He paused long enough to fix their attention. Then he said:

‘The second prize was two weeks’ holiday in Belfast.’ They laughed, all except Farrell, who said to Mulhall:

‘How do you propose to get the ninepence out of them.’

‘This way. The foundry crowd take coal from Doggett & Co. Very well. The next time I’m told to deliver to the foundry, I’ll refuse.’

‘What good will that do?’ Hennessy asked. ‘They’ll only sack you.’

‘Not if everyone else in Doggett & Co. stands by me.’

‘They could get it from us,’ Pat said.

‘Not if the Nolan & Keyes men do the same thing,’ Mulhall said.

They thought over this. It sounded impracticable at first, but gradually its possibilities suggested themselves.

‘You stand by us—we stand by you?’ Pat said. He was beginning to consider the idea.

‘Simple,’ Mulhall said.

‘Suppose they sack someone,’ Pat offered. ‘Suppose a carter is told to deliver and he refuses and he’s sacked. What then?’

‘Everybody downs tools,’ Mulhall said.

‘We get some of the coal direct from our own boats in the foundry,’ Fitz pointed out.

‘When they start doing that we’ll call on your fellows not to unload,’ Mulhall said.

‘You’d have the whole bloody city tied up in a week, at that rate,’ Pat put in worried.

‘Why not?’ Mulhall urged. ‘That’s what they did in Belfast.’

‘For three shillings?’ Hennessy asked, sceptical.

Farrell banged the table suddenly and roared at him.

‘For principle.’

His face had become thunderous. Hennessy shrank back.

‘No offence,’ he said, in a startled voice.

‘That’s what’s wrong with this city,’ Farrell said. ‘There isn’t a man of principle in it. I was steady on the quays until I refused to buy the stevedore a drink when he brought us into his brother’s pub to pay us. And I haven’t got a job on the quays since.’

Fitz put his hand on Farrell’s shoulder.

‘What Hennessy says makes sense,’ he said. ‘The issue is only three shillings for about twelve hands. No union would tie up a whole dockside for that.’

‘Larkin would. We have an agreement,’ Mulhall insisted.

‘With the carting firms, but not with the foundry.’

‘Larkin fixed the carters’ rate. It applies to everybody.’

‘Larkin might risk tying up the docks the way you suggest,’ Fitz said, ‘but Sexton and the British Executive won’t. It’s too costly.’

‘If Larkin agrees to do it,’ Mulhall said, ‘I don’t care a damn what the Executive says or thinks. And I’m going to see him about it tomorrow when we knock off.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Pat said.

‘What about you?’ Mulhall asked Fitz.

Pat said: ‘Fitz can’t. He’s on shift work tomorrow.’

‘You can tell him we’ll stand by you if we’re needed,’ Fitz said, ‘but it’s mad.’

‘That’s the stuff,’ Mulhall said, satisfied.

‘What about you?’ Pat asked Hennessy.

Hennessy sighed and said:

‘The unfortunate fact is that I’ve never been in any job long enough to join a union.’

The voice of a singer drifted in through the closed doors, a hard yet tuneful sound, which distracted Mulhall’s attention.

‘I know who that is,’ he said.

A shadow appeared on the glass, fumbled with the knob and shuffled in. It was Rashers. He blinked in the light. The dog beside him gave a short bark, recognising Mulhall before Rashers did.

‘Are you looking for money or drink?’ Mulhall asked.

‘Either or both,’ Rashers said, agreeably.

The damp air had condensed on his beard and made his rags smell. Mulhall introduced him and invited him to sit down. Rashers did so gratefully.

‘What brings you round this way?’ Hennessy asked.

‘Money or drink,’ Rashers said. Mulhall bought a pint for him and Rashers shook sawdust from a saucer spittoon and poured some of the drink into it for the dog. The dog lapped greedily. Rashers drank to the company.

‘Here’s my special blessing to you,’ he said.

‘Take the porter but keep the blessing,’ Mulhall said. ‘God knows what way a blessing from Rashers Tierney would work.’

‘Have the blessing,’ Rashers said, ‘There’s great virtue in it today.’ He put his pint down and addressed them generally.

‘I had the height of luck today. A young clergyman gave me a shilling. So I had a feed of soup and spuds in the St. Francis Dining Hall, and a cup of cocoa with a cut of bread. I could hardly waddle from there to here.’

He fumbled under his coat.

‘Any one of you gentlemen want to see today’s paper?’

Hennessy held out his hand.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘In one of the bins.’

‘It’s escaped the weather,’ Hennessy said, turning over the pages critically and noting that they were crisp and dry.

‘This was a very classy kind of bin, with a lid on it. And so big you’d be able to take shelter from the rain in it. That’s what I said to the priest who gave me the shilling.’

Hennessy, who had put on his spectacles, now lowered the paper and said to the company:

‘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.