‘Well, keep quiet about it anyway,’ Carrington said. ‘I’m not trying to get at you. This is just a friend’s advice.’
‘I know that,’ Fitz said, ‘there’s no misunderstanding between us.’
He was allowed in briefly to see Mulhall, who was asleep. He peeped behind the screen at the great body that would march in no more processions and battle no more through cordons of police. He would never let down the trust of that ageing and wounded man.
BOOK THREE
1913–1914
CHAPTER ONE
Christmas brought Hennessy a little work, a job as porter to a butcher. Rashers saw him pushing a delivery bicycle through the streets. It had ‘A. Rattigan—Choice Meats’ written on the enormous basket in front. He was not very expert at bicycle-riding and the basket in front made him wobble a lot, but Rashers waved encouragingly. The children in the poorer areas were less sympathetic.
‘Ay—mister . . .’ they yelled after him, and then, when at the risk of wobbling over altogether he looked around to find out what was wrong, they pointed and said:
‘Your back wheel is going around, mister.’
When he cursed at them they had an answer too.
‘Get down and milk it’ they yelled.
He soon learned not to look back at all. After a week the wobbles were noticeable only when he was starting off or stopping. A publican, by arrangement with the butcher, decided to use him in the night hours to deliver and collect bottles, so that he had two jobs. On Christmas Eve the butcher, a kindly man who knew there were several children, gave him a round of meat for the family dinner. The publican, not to be outdone, threw in a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of Tawney wine. Before going home Hennessy spared a little of each for Rashers, topping up the bottles with water so that his wife would not know.
For Mary it was the best Christmas she could remember. She bought holly to put around the walls, she had mottoes over the fireplace which read ‘Happy Xmas’ and ‘God Bless Our Home’. They were painted in green and red and yellow on rectangles of glossy black oilcloth. Mrs. Bradshaw sent a cake and a sovereign. For the first time she made Fitz play Santa and put little sixpenny toys in the children’s stockings. She had a sprig of mistletoe hung up too, which Pat took advantage of when he called to wish them the compliments of the season. He stayed for the meal, with Mrs. Mulhall and Willie, whom Mary had invited over because for them it was a sad time. In the evening Joe called. So, too, did Mr. and Mrs. Farrell. Farrell looked very much older, but he was still working on the docks and Mary was very much moved to see them again, remembering the time she had stayed with them in the first months before her marriage, remembering too the wintry seas almost outside the house and the driftwood on the strand brought in by the tide after the dreadful storm. They had drink too and sang songs. Pat persuaded Mrs. Mulhall to sing, but in the middle of it she began to cry, because she knew only one song and that was the song Bernie loved, and the thought of it all became too much for her.
‘You’ll have him back home soon,’ Pat comforted her, ‘and isn’t that something to look forward to.’
‘If God will spare him to me, that’s all I ask,’ she said, ‘we’ll manage the rest somehow.’
Pat said there could be no doubt about it now. The shock was the worst thing and once he’d weathered that, he’d weather the rest. Fitz said so too, though he knew that Mulhall was still lying in the shadow of death and felt it might be better, when all was said and done, if God decided to take him. She was reassured and asked them not to mind her and said she was sorry to spoil their pleasant evening.
Then the Christmas season had gone. Mary took the mottoes from the wall and threw the holly on the fire. As it blazed and sent its aromatic smoke about the room, she dreamed of what the year might bring. Fitz was a foreman now, with a foreman’s wages. They might get a little cottage of their own somewhere, away from the squalor and tragedy of Chandlers Court. Mrs. Bradshaw was her friend, generous, thoughtful, a person of influence in Fitz’s employment. That was the important thing, to have a friend in high places. The future was going to be happy. She sat down in the lamplight and began to write another letter, this time to her father, telling him how well the children were, how nice Christmas had been and all the great news that he would be so delighted to hear.
For others there was less to look forward to. First the publican decided the time had come when there was no longer any need for an extra porter; then the butcher, despite a kindly sympathy, had only three days a week to offer; then week-ends only; then, with regret, nothing. The city, its spending over, closed its purses to Rashers. January spread its dark skies above the children whose little bodies were bent over the ashcans. A series of shipping strikes marked the resumption of the dogged fight against long hours and inadequate wage packets. People who had overcoats kept them buttoned to the chin. In the mornings their eyes saw nothing except the lighted windows of their business places and in the evenings nothing but the lighted windows of home.
‘The supports are moving,’ Bradshaw said, leaving the letter on the breakfast table. She waited for him to continue, but he had huddled back into his chair.
‘What supports, dear?’
‘Good God—the supports they put up to strengthen the walls of the houses—what other supports?’
‘Is the letter from your agent?’
‘Who else do you imagine would write to me about the damned supports?’
‘How could I know,’ she said gently, ‘you didn’t explain who the letter was from. You simply said: “The supports are moving.”’
He had picked up the paper. It was February. The shipping companies, he read, had settled up with the men. It was an unusually generous settlement. It amounted, Bradshaw considered, to a complete and abject surrender.
‘The supports of the whole world are moving, if it comes to that,’ he said gloomily.
She clicked her tongue in sympathy. She had no idea what this latest remark was about, but he seemed so miserable. The room was cold and he disliked cold intensely. Agents’ letters always made him miserable too. Why he did not sell the houses she could not imagine. It cost so much simply to keep them standing that no matter how many he crammed into them there seemed to be very little money left over. She had dared to hint her view to him once or twice, but when he growled back at her she had to confess that she knew little or nothing about such things. He dropped his paper for a moment.
‘I think it a very odd thing.’
He said nothing further, so that in the end, although she was quite afraid to do so, she asked:
‘What is that, dear?’
‘About Yearling.’
‘Is there something odd about him?’
‘He hasn’t called to see us for several weeks.’
‘I noticed that too.’
‘That’s what I think very odd.’
‘I was thinking so too.’
‘You never said so,’ he said, accusingly.
He was working himself into a state of misery and ill feeling which, if she allowed him to go on, would last all day. That would be very bad for his health.
‘I thought perhaps I was only imagining it,’ she said, hoping to humour him.
‘I don’t see how you could imagine that Yearling hadn’t called. You could imagine someone had called even if someone hadn’t. But to think you imagined someone hadn’t called seems . . .’
‘I know dear . . . that was a stupid thing to say.’
‘Preposterous. However, I suppose I shouldn’t worry.’
‘You mustn’t.’
‘Did you ever notice the way he treated my whiskey?’
‘I remember he used to drink rather a lot.’
‘Guzzled it,’ Bradshaw said. ‘What’s the use of making excuses for him?’
‘He played the ’cello very nicely,’ she remembered. Sadly. If the summer would only come quickly. Then at breakfast they could look out on the flowers in the garden, gay and full of colours. In wint
er the french windows showed you too much of the desolate skies and let in draughts all the time.
‘His tone is very rough at times,’ Bradshaw objected, ‘and when he becomes engrossed he breathes very heavily. I always found that very distracting.’
‘He doesn’t realise it, of course.’
‘In addition, he’s too Liberal—far too Liberal.’
‘He likes a generous measure,’ she agreed.
‘I mean his politics—not the whiskey,’ Bradshaw exploded. He was sick to death of these misunderstandings. He tapped the newspaper. ‘He has liberal opinions which lead to this. If it goes on Mr. Larkin will be cock-o-the-walk.’
She had not read the paper as yet and so could not know what latest villainy of the labour leader Bradshaw had in mind.
‘He expresses strong sentiments,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think . . .’ She hesitated.
‘You sometimes think what?’ he demanded.
‘Sometimes I think . . . it’s the whiskey.’ It was such a dreadful thing to say that she was covered in confusion. At the same time, it seemed to please her husband.
‘Yearling is easily deceived. He can’t see that all this modern blarney about betterment of the workers’ conditions is a mere stalking horse for Red Republicanism.’
He took out his watch. It was the hour for his walk along the front. The prospect, on such a morning, was not at all pleasant. Nevertheless, regular exercise was essential to health. Putting back the watch with an air of resignation he added: ‘I think I might write to him.’
‘But won’t you be seeing him?’
‘Good God, Florence—I don’t mean the agent, I mean Yearling. I think I might write to Yearling.’
Then he said, deciding firmly:
‘That’s what I’ll do, I’ll write to him. He’s getting as odd as two left feet and I know why. It’s living all alone for so long in that enormous and empty house. Don’t you think I should do that?’
She saw now that he had missed Yearling. The grumbling was only a cloak. She saw, too, that he was uneasy about writing, for fear of a rebuff.
‘Suppose I invited him for a musical evening,’ she suggested. ‘I could ask Father O’Connor as well. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to come.’
She knew that this was what her husband had hoped for.
‘Excellent,’ he said, ‘write to both. Yearling is a nuisance, but we’ve known him such a long time. We mustn’t watch him become an old oddity of a bachelor and do nothing at all to help him.’
He put on his heavy muffler, his greatcoat, his hat, his gloves. He went out into the raw morning air. It made his ears tingle and smelled bitterly of the sea.
They met on St. Patrick’s Day. Yearling brought a fresh sprig of shamrock for his hostess. Mrs. Bradshaw praised it, found a pin and put it on her blouse. Then she said:
‘It seems a shame in a way. It withers so quickly.’
‘There’s an honoured custom, ma’am,’ Yearling reminded her, ‘and it’s called drowning the shamrock.’ He meant with spirits, of course. She smiled indulgently because no matter what her husband might say, he was jovial and yet thoughtful and that was nice. Bradshaw took the decanter from the sideboard. The glass was already out in readiness.
They sang Moore’s melodies because it was fitting to the occasion. They expressed national sentiments. It was altogether a very pleasant evening which concluded when Father O’Connor sang ‘The Dear Little Shamrock’ and they all joined in the chorus. The last tram had gone when they broke up but Yearling said he would leave Father O’Connor back to town in his motor, it was no trouble at all. After he had wound all the clocks and put the chain on the door, Bradshaw was in very good humour and sat at the fire for a while. She sat with him.
‘You played very nicely, Florence,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid I was out of practice.’
‘No,’ he insisted, ‘you were in excellent fettle. Most pleasing.’ He poured himself a small measure of port for a night-cap. ‘What was your opinion of Yearling?’
‘He seemed very well disposed.’
Bradshaw nodded agreeably.
‘Warm. Unusually so. Whatever was troubling him, he seems to have got over it. I think the evening did him good. It took him out of himself.’
On the way home Yearling and Father O’Connor spoke of Ireland in a sentimental way, of her sad history, of her hopes of nationhood so often and so bloodily thwarted, of the theatre of Mr. Yeats and Mr. Synge. Father O’Connor confessed that he had not seen any of the plays, but he had heard that they were in tone and language somewhat immoral. How much better Tom Moore had served Ireland through the medium of music and literature. He quoted:
‘Dear Harp of my country in darkness I found thee
The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long.
When proudly, my own Island Harp I unbound thee
And gave all thy chords to light Freedom and Song.’
Yearling agreed. He said he wished often that he could have been present when the brave Tom was bringing tears to the eyes of pretty ladies in early nineteenth-century London drawing rooms by singing them songs that were sweetly seditious. Then he threw back his head and sang defiantly:
‘Dear Harp of my Country, farewell to thy slumbers
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine.
Go—sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers
Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine.’
He paused to say, ‘Come now, Father, join in,’ and continued, helped timidly by Father O’Connor, who was not happy about the seemliness of singing at the top of the voice in a motor car on the public street:
‘If the pulse of the patriot, soldier or lover
Have throbbed at our lay, ’tis thy glory alone
I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over
And all the wild sweetness I waked was thine own.’
‘Very beautiful,’ Father O’Connor said, when Yearling had adjusted his hat, which had tilted askew during his lusty chorus.
‘Did you know, Father, that Byron praised Moore’s verses highly?’
Father O’Connor confessed that he had not known.
‘It’s a fact,’ Yearling said. ‘The same Don Juan had a reputation for practising more than his poetry, but he had the magnanimity to acknowledge another man’s genius.’
‘Admirable,’ Father O’Connor said. He had to raise his voice. The motor, in the dark, deserted streets, was making a lot of noise.
‘Home Rule, of course, is a mirage,’ Yearling said, surprisingly, since the Bill had been passed in January by the House of Commons.
‘But the Lords can no longer veto it,’ Father O’Connor objected, ‘it must automatically become law in two years.’
‘It will be stopped.’
‘Surely not.’
‘Carson,’ Yearling said. ‘Carson will stop it. He has a hundred thousand volunteers drilling to fight it.’
‘I understand they have nothing but dummy rifles.’
‘They’ll get the real things when the time comes. If the British Unionists don’t supply them, our splendiferous and grandiloquent cousin—I refer to his Imperial Sublimity the Kaiser Wilhelm—will oblige. Do you know who Carson’s grandfather was?’
Father O’Connor could not say.
‘An immigrant Italian who resided in Dublin called Carsoni. The name of the present bould Orange blade is an abbreviation.’
Father O’Connor was astounded.
‘True bill.’ Yearling said.
‘Now that you mention it,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘his skin is very dark.’
‘A combination of liver trouble and the pigmentation of the Middle Sea,’ Yearling said. He turned a corner with a flamboyant twist of the wheel. A moment later he slowed to a standstill.
‘Your destination,’ he announced.
‘I’ve brought you very far out of your way.’
‘A pleasure. Think nothing of it. By the way, w
hat did you think of Bradshaw?’
‘He seemed anxious to be agreeable.’
‘That’s what I thought too. I knew him at school, you know.’
‘So you’ve told me.’
‘He should never have married,’ Yearling said. ‘He’s becoming quite odd. I’ve noticed the change over the years.’
‘In what way?’ Father O’Connor asked.
‘Well, for one thing, the peculiar way he looks at me when I raise my glass to him and say “Good health”. Almost inimical.’
‘I think you exaggerate.’
‘No indeed. It happens almost every time. Still, I’m glad we went. I think the evening took him out of himself. Well—good night.’
‘God bless you,’ Father O’Connor said.
The railings were black and forbidding and the bulk of the church rose darkly against the sky. Yearling honked the horn in a friendly way and went off. The noise was ear-splitting.
In June again there was a shipping strike, followed by a building strike, followed by a strike of engineers. There were Larkinite processions, Larkinite banners, Larkinite slogans scrawled on the walls and footpaths of every street in Father O’Connor’s parish. Throughout the weeks of summer he watched them. The weather was fine and yet the air that lingered over evening thoroughfares seemed heavy not with the sun’s aftermath but with veiled and terrible anger. Men, no longer awed by his cloth, shook collection boxes under his nose at street corners; the little children begged coppers from him whenever he passed them. He had made a rule not to give charity because it only prolonged and encouraged discontent, yet he broke it on many occasions because the children had a pinched and hungry look in their faces. It was his duty, he felt, to harden his heart, but it was impossible not to have pity for the young and the innocent. These were not at fault. The air of the city told Father O’Connor that it must end badly. He could smell evil in the streets.
Pat and Joe were involved, and then they were back at work—then once again they were called out. Farrell stood idle for some weeks when the dockers refused to handle cargo. Fitz alone escaped. He set out to work each morning with growing uncertainty, yet when he returned each evening nothing had happened. The foundry workers had the rumour that a general strike was imminent, that the workers in Britain were waiting to join them in a complete close down in every part of the British Isles. In July Mulhall, back home from hospital and bedridden, sent across for him one evening and told him Willie and the rest of the messengers in Independent Newspapers had been dismissed for being members of Larkin’s Union. Mulhall was still weak. His face had a grey and bloodless pallor. But he clung tenaciously to the subject and the steps that should be taken and they sat talking until a late hour. The next day Independent Newspapers were blacklisted, shops and even railway kiosks that sold it were picketed. The distributors’ vans went about their business under police escort. The arrangement, only partly successful, added to the general tension.
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