‘The girl knows us all by now,’ Farrell said, amicably.
‘I do indeed,’ Mary agreed.
‘We’ll leave them to themselves just the same,’ Mrs. Farrell suggested to her husband.
‘Anything strange at the foundry?’ Farrell asked, ignoring her.
‘Not a thing,’ Fitz said. He sat down opposite Mary while Mrs. Farrell, having failed to move her husband, covered her defeat by picking up the pot and pouring tea for them.
‘I thought you might. I heard talk myself of a strike with the carters.’
‘They were working up to twelve.’
‘Ah—it didn’t come off so.’
‘It’s a bit near Christmas for anything like that,’ Fitz suggested.
‘Not when I tell you who’s in town.’
Fitz looked at him enquiringly.
Farrell spat into the fire before replying.
‘Jim Larkin.’
‘Larkin,’ Fitz repeated.
‘He had a meeting with the carters and with a crowd from the purifier sheds in the Gas Company. He had a word with us too.’ Farrell was a docker.
‘When was that?’
‘After the morning read.’
‘Did you speak to him yourself?’
‘I told him what had happened to me and about the stevedores paying us in pubs,’ Farrell said. ‘He says he’ll put a stop to it.’
After almost a year of constant work, Farrell, in a moment of stubbornness, had refused to put up a drink for the stevedore. He had not been jobbed by him since. It was hard on Mrs. Farrell, especially with Christmas so near.
You can talk to Fitz tonight,’ Mrs. Farrell hinted once again.
This time her husband grunted and heaved himself from his chair. ‘Right,’ he said.
The Farrells retired into their bedroom. It was an understood thing by now.
After tea they sat a little while by the fire, then it was time to leave. She rose and Fitz took her in his arms.
‘I hate having to go,’ she told him. He held her tightly. It was a rare happiness to be together in a warm room, in the intimacy of firelight and lamplight. He kissed her. They went out into the street once again. The air was moist. The raw wind smelled and tasted of fog.
Later it rolled in from the sea, creeping across sandbanks and fingering its way up the river, curling across the sea-wall and fanning out lazily about houses and streets. It trapped the light from each lamp-post in turn and held it inescapably in a luminous tent. The foghorns at regulated intervals intoned their melancholy warnings. Rashers, returned to his cellar, drank tea in the light of a candle and shivered because of the rising damp. Fitz on his way to the foundry blinked constantly to remove its cobweb breath from his eyes.
On her way to bed Mary brought a glass of warm milk to Miss Gilchrist, who had been told to go early to her room because she had not been feeling well. The old woman was sitting at the fire which Mary had been allowed to light for her earlier. She gestured to Mary to sit.
‘We have plenty of work before us tomorrow,’ Miss Gilchrist said. ‘There’s the drawing room to do and every stick of furniture to move for the sweeping.’
‘You won’t be able for it,’ Mary said.
I’ll be right in the morning. It’s only a little turn.’
But Mary felt she would not be right. She looked drawn and wan.
‘Drink your milk,’ she said gently.
‘I was thinking to myself that I’m the lucky woman,’ Miss Gilchrist said, ‘with my own little room and my own fire. There’s many a one this night that’s cold and hungry.’
Mary wondered that she could be contented. She had spent her life giving to others what she could have spent on a home and children and she would die without one to mourn for her. But she said nothing of that. The lonely old woman was on the brink of uselessness. What would happen when that time came? Who would care for her?
‘Be a wise girl and stick to service,’ Miss Gilchrist continued, ‘it’s a great safeguard against poverty.’
Mary said, shyly:
‘There are some would say to go for a house and a husband.’
‘And hardship,’ Miss Gilchrist said. ‘They say nothing about the hardship. That’s what house and husband mean for people of our rearing and family. Take an old woman’s advice and don’t be led astray by a fancy.’
Mary, thinking of Fitz, knew she would follow her fancy wherever it led. Whatever hardship might come it would be better than loneliness. It would be better to share cold and want than have food and fire in a house that must always be a stranger’s. She said nothing of that either. How could she?
‘When I was a child,’ said Miss Gilchrist, ‘I saw the famine. They ate the grass out of the ditches and the leaves off the trees and when I walked as a little girl down the length of a lane the corpses I saw had the green juice still on their lips. That’s what I remember as a child. That and the smell of the potato blight.’
‘I heard about it from my own people,’ Mary said.
‘And those that tried to raise the people out of poverty were hanged or sent off in chains to Australia.’
Mary looked at the drawing on the mantelpiece, Miss Gilchrist’s Fenian; the handsome young rebel who had sheltered in her father’s house when she was a young girl. Miss Gilchrist followed her eyes.
‘That was one of them,’ she said gently, ‘the flower of them all.’
It occurred to Mary that Miss Gilchrist may have loved him. Had she watched him slip out into the dark one night, watched the bonfires on the hills, heard of the miserable failure of yet another rebellion?
‘Stick to service,’ Miss Gilchrist repeated. ‘In this country the ones that don’t fight are not worth your attention and the ones that do bring nothing but heartbreak.’
‘You should go to bed now,’ Mary prompted. ‘The rest will do you all the good in the world.’
Miss Gilchrist handed her the glass and rose with difficulty. ‘That’s what I’ll do,’ Miss Gilchrist agreed.
Mary went to sleep with the sound of foghorns still vibrating at intervals through the room. It was past midnight. Outside the fog spread and deepened, curling around the well-kept houses of Kingstown, creeping along the deserted roads of Blackrock and Booterstown, stealing along the quays and the crowded slums of the city where rooms became damper and more evil-smelling and the great tide of destitute humanity settled down to the familiar joys and miseries of its lot; in the stink of terrible houses quarrelling, loving, sinning, sleeping, cohabiting, praying and dying. The fog rolled over all with ever-shifting movements, so that the city lay submerged and paralysed and the foghorns had it all to themselves. They sang all night to the great and the little, telling them life was vanity and Death the only certainty.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mary had told Mrs. Bradshaw she had an aunt in the city for one reason only. There was no other way in which she could be free to visit Fitz. As a servant in training she was practically the property of the Bradshaws, dependent on their kindness for every occasional release from duty. She had no fixed day off and no agreed arrangement of work. To her parents, as to society, the condition was customary and therefore beyond questioning. She hated the deceit which, in the face of Mrs. Bradshaw’s gentleness and trust, made her feel unworthy. Yet what was she to do? She was one of a class without privilege and like most of the others she had found her own means to filch a little freedom from time to time. When it was discovered, as it had to be, she suffered in a way which puzzled and terrified her.
Mrs. Bradshaw suffered too. She felt that Mary had justified Mr. Bradshaw’s frequent criticisms of her indulgence.
‘This is what comes of sentiment when dealing with servants,’ he said. ‘How many times have I spoken to you about it?’
‘It’s a great disappointment,’ was all she could offer in defence.
The lie had been discovered through her innocent reference to the visits in her letter to Mary’s father. His reply that there was no relative
in Dublin and his anxiety to know what exactly could be going on made Mrs. Bradshaw regret her mention of the matter. She was fond of Mary. She felt there could be nothing seriously wrong.
‘It was terribly wicked of you,’ she said, ‘your father is so upset. I’m quite certain he thinks we have been lax.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ Mary offered. There was nothing else she could say.
‘And what necessity was there for it?’ Mrs. Bradshaw asked. ‘I never refused you permission to go out.’
Mary remained silent. She could not have asked permission week after week to see Fitz. People refused to trust young servants with young men. It was a part of their thinking to expect the worst. So she would have had to tell lies anyhow. There was no way out. Mrs. Bradshaw, in the absence of a reply, asked the question which her world considered unavoidable in such situations.
‘Have you been meeting any people? . . . I mean people of the opposite sex?’
Mary flushed at the implication which, however delicately Mrs. Bradshaw strove to push it into the background, remained in the question itself. She determined on this occasion not to lie. It was better to be punished than to go on with the deceit.
‘I’ve been meeting a young man . . . the same young man,’ Mary said.
The next question framed itself automatically, but Mrs. Bradshaw decided against asking it. She saw that Mary was suffering. Pity was always stronger in Mrs. Bradshaw than anger or anxiety.
Mary, who understood the hesitation, said: ‘There’s been nothing wrong between us.’ She was glad that the lies had ended.
‘I believe you,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.
But Mr. Bradshaw was not so easily satisfied. His mind was quite made up and his conversation on the matter was punctuated by frequent raising and lowering of his perpetual newspaper.
‘She must go,’ he insisted.
‘The poor girl has done nothing wrong.’
‘We have only her word for it.’
‘I believe her.’
The newspaper was lowered.
‘You also believed her about this ridiculous aunt.’
Mrs. Bradshaw had no reply. She changed her voice and her tactics.
‘It seems such a pity to dismiss her.’
‘I fail to see why.’
‘I was thinking of the girl herself. We can’t give her a clear reference and without that she’ll find it impossible to get another position.’
‘She should have thought of that before she picked up with some young blackguard.’
‘They don’t have very much freedom. I’m sure it was all quite innocent.’
‘Innocent,’ Mr. Bradshaw repeated, bringing his newspaper down on his knees with a loud noise. ‘You mustn’t think these young girls are like yourself. They breed like rabbits. My God, woman, do you want her having babies all over the place?’
Mrs. Bradshaw changed colour. He noticed. Mistaking the reason, he apologised.
‘Forgive me if I sound crude, but we must face facts.’
It was not the crudeness which had upset Mrs. Bradshaw. In a small, dry voice she said: ‘I really don’t think it would arise.’
‘While there are hundreds of strong, willing and reliable girls to choose from, am I to sit by and see you saddled with an impressionable trollop. We pay for trustworthiness, my dear. We must make sure that we get it.’
Mrs. Bradshaw said, quietly: ‘I liked her. She suited me.’
‘You are being sentimental again. It is a constant fault of yours.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ Mrs. Bradshaw admitted. ‘I don’t think it so wrong to want to forgive.’
‘Nonsense. She goes back to her parents. A servant is not like an ordinary employee. One has moral responsibilities in the case of a servant.’
But Mary’s departure was delayed by the illness of Miss Gilchrist. The old woman’s collapse was gradual. In the course of the Christmas cleaning Mary helped her to shift the heavy furniture and noted the toll it took of her strength. She refused to rest on the grounds that the work had to be done. One day when they had moved the sideboard near the piano they discovered Father O’Connor’s beads, an amber and silver rosary in a worn purse. Miss Gilchrist put them in her apron pocket, saying she would return them personally later. Father O’Connor had become a favourite of hers and she recognised his property at once. She regarded him as something of a saint and never missed going to him for her monthly confession.
Less than an hour later she collapsed. Mary shouted for Mrs. Bradshaw and together they managed to take her to her room. They got her to bed. Mary lit the lamp and drew the curtains, cutting out the gloom of the December evening. The pallor of Miss Gilchrist’s face and her heavy breathing frightened her. They stayed watching her for a while until Mrs. Bradshaw said: ‘I think it would be as well to go for the doctor.’
During the next few days Mary, in between frequent errands, found an opportunity to contact Fitz again. She asked him to be near the gate at midnight on the following Sunday. Sunday was an early night in the Bradshaw household. When the rest had retired she would somehow get out to see him.
She made it a habit to sit with Miss Gilchrist during the night until after midnight. The old woman recovered a little, but remained too weak to be allowed up. On Sunday evening Father O’Connor called to see her. She had asked Mary to summon him. Mary left everything ready for the priest and withdrew. He gave no sign of being aware of the pending dismissal. When Miss Gilchrist had confessed to him he removed his purple stole, kissed it and folded it. He looked round the room. Miss Gilchrist smiled.
‘Haven’t I the height of comfort, Father,’ she said.
‘You have indeed,’ Father O’Connor said. ‘You’re the lucky woman.’
‘That shows you that I’m highly thought of.’
‘Are you long here?’ Father O’Connor asked.
‘Over thirty years.’
‘Then why wouldn’t you be highly thought of?’ he bantered, not without difficulty. He found it difficult to be easy and natural with a servant.
‘It isn’t always so,’ she said. ‘There’s some would dump you in an attic without fire or comfort.’
‘And who would have the heartlessness to do that?’ Father O’Connor reproved.
‘Many’s the one. I seen it and I know. Or pack you off to the Union the minute you showed a sign of feebleness. And why not, I suppose, when a poor body is not of their blood.’
‘Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw are good people,’ he said.
‘That’s what I’m saying, Father.’
‘And most people are good too, but gossip doesn’t give them credit.’ He felt it might be no harm to slip in a few words about the danger of uncharitable talk. But he got no chance.
The old woman said next: ‘Hand me across my apron, Father.’
He looked around, searching, and saw it draped on a chair. A tiny wave of irritation at being commanded by the old woman moved inside him but was suppressed. He handed it to her. She rooted for the pocket and gave him the purse.
‘I found them for you when we were cleaning,’ she said, with wonderful pleasure.
He opened the purse and let the beads fall into his hands. To have them again choked him with happiness.
‘My rosary,’ was all he could say, ‘how can I thank you . . . ?’
‘You can say a little prayer for me.’
‘They were my mother’s. I’d rather lose anything than these.’
Miss Gilchrist lay still, taking in his happiness, smiling in sympathy with it.
‘God bless you,’ he said. On an impulse he placed his hand lightly on her head and murmured his formal blessing. She closed her eyes and barely opened them when he bid her good night.
‘What do you make of her?’ Bradshaw asked.
He had made a point of meeting the priest in the hallway.
‘I think she should be all right,’ Father O’Connor said. Priests, he knew, had the reputation of being good judges, but as yet he had had very little experienc
e of the sick-room.
‘Can you step in here a moment,’ Bradshaw invited. He held open the door of the drawing-room. They sat down.
‘The doctor,’ Bradshaw began, ‘thinks it may have been a little . . . stroke.’
They always said little, Father O’Connor thought, remembering the old woman’s closed eyes and tired face. It was a little weakness, a little turn, a little upset.
‘The trouble is,’ Bradshaw continued carefully, ‘that it seems to have affected one of the legs.’
‘In what way?’ the priest asked.
‘Paralysis—at least partial. Of course, it may pass.’
‘Please God it will.’
‘On the other hand it may not.’ Bradshaw fixed his gaze on the far corner. ‘What are we to do if she is no longer able to work?’
He waited for the priest to answer. Father O’Connor, drawn suddenly into the problem by the use of the word ‘we’, felt he should answer that the Christian thing would be to look after the old woman. But no matter how he tried to formulate the sentence it sounded incredibly impracticable. He decided to play for time and, if possible, to put forward his view obliquely.
‘She has been a very long time in service with you,’ he began.
‘She’s been paid for her trouble, every penny.’
‘Of course. It was not my intention . . .’
‘And been treated with every consideration.’
‘I have personal evidence of that,’ Father O’Connor said, in a conciliatory voice.
‘Indeed, if Mrs. Bradshaw has a shortcoming, it is her indulgent nature, as I have bitter cause to know.’
Father O’Connor, intimidated by Bradshaw’s commanding tone, nodded his head.
‘It’s not that I mind her growing old,’ Bradshaw continued, ‘provided she can potter around and get her work done. But what if she is incapable? We can’t employ a servant to dance attendance on a servant. The thing would be absurd.’
‘Has she no relatives?’
‘None at all.’
‘That makes it very difficult,’ Father O’Connor found himself saying.
‘And worrying, very worrying,’ Bradshaw added. He sighed deeply, thinking that he was never quite free from ill fortune; troubles trailed him everywhere like kittens after a cat.
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