Among the band of hollow-eyed, lice-ridden Irish, Patrick sat and listened to all the familiar words with growing contempt. He should have been used to the insults by now – Heaven knew he had heard them in every town and city since arriving on English soil – yet the anger never failed to simmer resentfully inside him at the lack of compassion and rejection they had had to endure. He smouldered at Raper’s smug pink face and had a sudden urge to smash it; but as Mary would say, that would get them nowhere. Instead he examined his sore and bleeding feet, wincing as he probed the abscesses which had cracked open with the severe conditions under which they had been forced to travel. His attention was suddenly drawn back to the speakers: Tuke was by no means finished yet.
‘Well, all I can say, gentlemen,’ – he laid scornful emphasis on the word, deriving some satisfaction from having made one or two of his opponents look extremely uncomfortable – ‘is that I hope not one among you should ever have to undergo the same fate as these people. I wonder how many of you would fare if the food on which you relied suddenly vanished overnight, which is what has happened in Ireland. How many of you would be able to survive on nettles or grass?’ He looked around at the mixed expressions. ‘Eh? Not many, I’ll stake my life on it – especially some of our more portly friends.’ He fixed his eyes on Raper’s waistcoat, the buttons straining over his rotund frontage, the vertical stripes wrinkling into crooked waves. ‘You would not take very kindly to being denied your roast beef and glass of porter, would you, friend? Well, these folk do not ask for such rich fare; all they ask is to be allowed to come into the city to earn a living. For pity’s sake do not turn them away when they have come to this noble city of ours for help.’
Raper glared at his companions who seemed about to give way to Tuke’s relentless persuasion. ‘Don’t let ’im make fools o’ yer!’ he shouted at them. ‘Tryin’ to play on yer conscience, he is. Well, it isn’t ’im who has to live with ’em, is it? Look!’ He jabbed a finger to where Denny’s body lay between Patrick and Mary, his face even redder. ‘If yer need any more evidence that they’re riddled with disease well there yer ’ave it. They’re droppin’ like flies – an’ so will we be if we let the buggers in.’ He snorted triumphantly as the crowd were behind him once more and said, ‘There y’are, Mr Tuke.’ – The clever devil, all high an’ mighty, looking down on them as likes a drink. – ‘I’m sure we’re all very sorry for ’em, but like I said, our folk ’ave to come first.’
Patrick looked at Tuke and knew by the man’s eyes that he was about to give in. Well, Tuke might be but he wasn’t. Tired as he was he rose to his feet and strode over to place himself between Tuke and Raper. The butcher took a step backwards as he looked up into the Irishman’s livid face.
‘Keep away!’
‘Afraid I’ll infest ye with the fever, are ye?’ asked Patrick, taking a step towards him and causing Raper to take another step back. ‘Well, ye needn’t worry on that score, but I’m thinkin’ ye should be pretty wary of these.’ He presented two huge, clenched fists and nodded grimly as Raper tried to back away again but was hampered by the press of bodies at his rear.
‘What did I tell yer?’ yelled Raper. ‘Ravin’ lunatics, the lot of ’em. Look at the madness in them eyes. He can’t wait to get hold o’ me, look at ’im!’
‘Friend, I think you had better…’ Tuke began.
‘Ah, don’t worry, sir,’ Patrick growled. ‘I’d not be soiling me hands with the varmint. I’d just like to set the record straight on poor Denny there. ’Twas not the fever that did for him, you fat old Pharisee, ’twas an Englishman. Cut down in the flower of his youth by a man not unlike yourself, Raper. Indeed he was so similar as to be your brother. A nice fella he was, kind-hearted, generous, aye very much like yourself.’ He finished with a sudden swipe at Raper’s nose, making the man jump and snort his alarm, then with an expression of disgust he walked back to his friends.
Tuke sighed. There seemed no point in further argument now. Had it not been for Raper he was sure he could have won them over, but the big Irishman had just extracted any chance of that. Perhaps once the immigrants were loused and cured of the fever they so obviously carried the people of York might relent.
‘My friends, it appears you are not to be allowed entry to the city. However, if you can summon up the energy to walk a few miles further I can promise you a place where you will not be turned away.’
Hardly daring to entertain much hope – their hopes having been dashed too many times for that – the immigrants listlessly picked up their belongings and doubled back from whence they had come to follow the Quaker. Leaving behind the medieval walls that sparkled in malevolent defence of the city, walls which an hour ago had appeared ready to embrace them in the bosom of that city and now served only to hold them at bay, the paupers limped, shuffled and dragged themselves along the Heslington road until Tuke finally came to stop at the gates of a field.
‘I am sorely afraid I can offer you no shelter as yet. The Board of Guardians does propose to erect a fever hospital here as soon as is humanly possible, but until that time we shall have to make do with what we can lay our hands to. I shall procure as many blankets as I am able and bring them to you immediately. If you could segregate those amongst you who are in need of medical attention it would be most helpful.’
He watched them file into the field then, after a brief and successful tangling with the farmer who rented the remainder of the field for his cows, went to seek the aid of a physician.
* * *
Every day the Tuke family visited the Irish. They helped to feed and nurse the fever victims, running the risk of becoming infected by the deadly typhus which was now rife in the camp, along with dysentery and other types of fever. The shed which was to serve as a fever hospital was near completion, which was as well for now added to the camp were those members of York’s immigrant community who had hitherto been left to fend for themselves and with its swelling numbers was like a boil ready to burst. Makeshift tents had been imported to supply temporary accommodation. It was in one of these that Patrick and his wife were living, still unable to gain access to the city.
The Irishman, having regained some of his former strength with the regular diet, helped with the construction of the fever hospital. The fact that he gave his services for mere coppers induced the goodwill of the carpenters and before they departed one of them whispered to Patrick that he knew of employment if the man was interested.
‘Am I interested?’ Patrick laughed. ‘I’ve been doing nothing but trying to find a job since I set foot here. I’d hoped to work in the chicory fields but Mr Tuke tells me there’s near riots going on over who gets the jobs an’ apparently the harvest isn’t till autumn.’
‘Well, I’m sorry I can’t offer you owt like that,’ replied the man. ‘What I had in mind was a bricklayer’s labourer.’
‘Sure, I’m a farmer,’ protested Patrick. ‘What do I know about building?’
‘You don’t need to know about building, just do what you’ve been doing for us – passing tools an’ that. Anyway, think about it – but not too long or it might be gone. It’s for a builder name o’ Baxter.’
‘I don’t need to think about it,’ answered Patrick. ‘An’ ’tis very good o’ ye to offer me first chance.’ He had been told by Tuke that people were often reluctant to employ the immigrants, seeing them as workshy.
‘Aye well, he’s not a bad bloke isn’t Baxter. I think you’ll get it if you nip in quick.’
Patrick cheered. ‘All I need now is a place to live.’
‘Oh, God aye.’ The man scratched his head. ‘Eh, wait there a minute – I might be able to help you there an’ all.’ He approached one of the other carpenters and engaged in a short conversation. When he returned he told Patrick that his partner knew of a landlord with vacant accommodation in Britannia Yard. ‘Don’t expect much though, but it’s better than nowt.’
Patrick asked him if he would scribble down the address of the house and its l
andlord, also that of the builder. The man showed surprise. ‘You can read an’ write an’ you’re wasting your time with labouring jobs?’
The other grinned. ‘Ah no, I’m not pretending to be a scholar but I learnt enough in Ireland to get me by.’ He thanked the man and, taking the piece of paper that bore his future, went to share it with his wife.
Mary was thrilled. ‘Oh, but we’ll have to go see Mr Tuke before we go, he’s been so good to us.’
Patrick agreed and they did just that. Tuke, after congratulating them, asked Patrick if he had any money. The Irishman became uncomfortable. He divulged that he had earned a small amount from helping the carpenters but it was not enough to last the week. Tuke then presented him with a sum from the Board of Guardians, for which he received another effusive bout of thanks.
‘The good Lord knows there is no call to thank me.’ The austere face softened. ‘I have done little. Indeed, the efforts of your good wife this past week have put me to shame.’
Patrick’s frown showed incomprehension and Tuke explained that Mary had done a splendid job of nursing the sick. The Irishman pressed his lips together so as not to swear before the gentleman but he threw his wife a look of rebuke which – as she hadn’t followed the interchange – she failed to understand.
‘So that’s what ye were doing while me back was turned.’ It was delivered in Irish and with a smile for Tuke’s benefit but she felt his annoyance and knew that Mr Tuke must have disclosed her little secret – and after she had been so careful that Pat shouldn’t find out, always being there in the tent when he came back from helping with the shed. However, she saved her excuses for later, thanking God Mr Tuke was present to save her from her husband’s displeasure, at least for the moment.
Tuke smiled his goodbyes, watched as they picked up their meagre possessions and walked to the gate. Their shoulders, previously bowed, were now held straight in a token of renewed optimism. After hearing where Patrick was proposing to live, he hoped that spirit would last.
Chapter Nine
They drifted along Walmgate, a thoroughfare composed of centuries of building styles, medieval to modern. There were dingy stuccoed dwellings with crumbling gables and tiny shuttered windows, the more sedate Georgian facades with gold lettering above the fanlight windows and row upon row of shops, punctuated by the buildings that seemed to make the most frequent appearance of all – public houses. There were scores of them, enough to cater for the whole of Dublin, thought Mary uneasily. She had often said how splendid it must be to be a city-dweller, but this place did nothing to verify that opinion. Yet it was certainly grand to gaze into all these shops, for never had she seen such variety. The people around here must have pots of money.
‘Oh, Pat!’ She pressed her nose to the window of a pawnshop. ‘Look at that lovely gown.’
‘Ah, wouldn’t you be the dangerous sight dressed in that,’ remarked her husband, then wiped the smudge of dirt from her nose. ‘But, no second-hand clothes for you, my love. Now, I’ve chance of a job I’ll buy ye the finest gown in all the city – when you’re not looking like a pouter pigeon that is.’ He laughed as she punched him lightly in the ribs. It was remarkable what a little hope could do, he thought, recalling her sad face of yesterday. He gave another glance at the paper in his hand. He had found the landlord’s address all right and had paid the advanced rent but his own accommodation wasn’t so easy to pinpoint. ‘Well, I’m jiggered if I can find this place, Mary.’ They had almost reached the end of Walmgate. ‘Ah dear, looks like we’ll have to go all the way back down the other side — but won’t we feel better from the exercise?’ He grinned.
In fact they were almost within reach of Walmgate Bar again before Patrick spotted a defaced sign. ‘Jaze, no wonder I couldn’t see it. Still, I suppose we couldn’t expect a brass plaque.’ He stopped to consider the passageway, trying to get a glimpse of what lay at the other end.
‘Surely there aren’t any houses down there,’ put forward Mary, following him down the narrow, litter-strewn alley which opened onto a courtyard.
They emerged from the passage and stopped dead. The first thing that hit them was the smell; the all-pervading stench of excrement, both animal and human, joined forces with the smell of fear to invade their already battered senses and send them reeling. There were houses, sure enough. At the doorway of each small dwelling was an ashpit and midden, all overflowing. The gutters that were channelled into the unpaved yard ran with blood and filth, flowing in a steady stream from a slaughterhouse, from which also erupted bellows of fear and pain.
Amid all this revulsion scores of people, grey-skinned and unkempt, lounged or squatted, puffing unconcernedly at their pipes, their passionless eyes sparing nary a glance for the newcomers. Tousle-haired infants with dirt-ringed mouths – some not yet walking – played amongst the piles of raw sewage. The only hint of colour was provided by the glossy-backed bluebottles which flitted happily from dungheap to child’s face, where they were absent-mindedly brushed away, only to land again a few seconds later.
‘We must’ve come to the wrong place,’ ventured Mary hopefully, looking to her husband for reassurance; but all she received was a rather scathing expression.
God, but she is innocent, thought Patrick, but me, I should’ve know better – should’ve known that we’d be sent somewhere like this. ‘God damn them!’ he raged. ‘How can we be expected to live like this?’ With a dolorous sigh he smoothed out the paper which he had crumpled tightly in his anger. ‘Well, we’ve paid a week’s rent now. I’ve not enough cash left to be choosy. Looks like that one’s ours.’ He pointed to where the framework of a door had partially fallen away. Such a desirable residence.
They climbed over the debris and filth, disturbing the bluebottles which rose in a buzzing cloud as the dismayed couple entered the house. Inside was no improvement. Someone had obviously been using the place as a latrine. Mary opened the window to admit a little more light; the ageing paintwork flaked away like dead skin as she touched it. Decomposed flies scattered the sill. Damp patches punctuated the chipped and scarred walls. Patrick set a foot on the rickety staircase and gingerly ascended it to examine the solitary bedroom.
He rubbed a peephole in the clouded window and peered out, trying to close his mind to the squalor below. So this was what it was like to live in the city. What a contrast to the lush, open spaces of home. He tried in vain to catch a glimpse of greenery over the dingy houses. There was nothing to be seen but black, grey and brown – not the warm and friendly brown of the earth but a brown of decay, of old age, of hope extinguished. It terrified him.
Then the feeling of panic subsided. There were voices below. He dashed the beads of perspiration from his brow. His shirt was saturated at the armpits and down his spine. Taking one more deep breath he went back downstairs.
‘Pat, this is Mrs Flaherty.’ Mary gestured at the angular figure in the doorway.
Patrick managed to control his voice. ‘Ah, good day to ye, Mrs Flaherty. Won’t you come in? I’m sorry we’ve nowhere for ye to sit nor anything to offer ye at the moment.’
‘Ah, don’t you fret, son.’ Molly Flaherty brushed aside his apology and swept into the room, sending a swirling cloud of dust around the hem of her skirt. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here. I just thought I’d come an’ make your acquaintance an’ see if there’s anything I can do.’ She spoke in her native tongue, eyes like black slits above the finely-sculptured cheekbones lingering fleetingly on a point below Patrick’s belt. She took in the broad – if somewhat bony – shoulders, the large capable hands, then her eyes encountered his amused, startlingly-blue ones and she hastily looked away. He was a fine figure of a man, she thought, comparing him to the balding and portly father of her children – though Jimmy’s robustness was caused not by over-indulgence of food but from the large quantities of ale he drank in order to forget his poverty.
‘It looks as if ye’ll be needin’ some help shortly.’ She nodded towards Mary’s distended figure.
Mary agreed and hopelessly indicated the house with a sweep of her skinny arm. ‘An’ with this lot, too.’
‘Ah, sure we’ll soon have that in order,’ cried Molly, rolling up her sleeves to reveal strong, sinewy arms. ‘Ye’re very fortunate to be having this place to yourselves.’
Patrick laughed disbelievingly. ‘Oh aye, ’tis a privilege to pay two shillings for it. A veritable palace.’
‘What I meant was, won’t ye be taking any lodgers? Sure I take in a couple meself. It helps with the rent.’
‘An’ how many would I be taking in a mousehole like this?’ he demanded.
Molly laughed. ‘Ye think this is cramped. Sure there’s twenty in the house next door.’
Mary scratched viciously at her head. ‘Before I consider new lodgers I’ll have to get rid o’ the old ones. These dratted lice are driving me insane.’
Molly found this hilarious, also Patrick’s suggestion that he must take a bath, but said that if they were intent on wasting good money on soap she would show Mary where to buy it.
Patrick thrust his hand in his pocket and gave her the remainder of his money. ‘Ye’d best get some food in too, love. It looks like this is going to be our new home.’
As Mrs Flaherty took Mary’s arm and piloted her through the dust and rubbish he let out a noisy sigh and, brushing a handful of tiny corpses from the windowsill, he began the thankless task of bringing the house into some semblance of respectability.
When Mary and Mrs Flaherty returned, they set to work cleaning and scrubbing. Molly enlisted the help of her eldest daughter, while Patrick went to ask if anyone could lend him a hammer and nails with which to repair the doorpost. Whilst in the process of this he received a second taste of what life in Britannia Yard was going to be like. He turned sharply as a medley of howls and bellows interrupted his conversation and his heart sank as he recognised the person at the centre of the row.
A Long Way from Heaven Page 8