Strumpet City (12 page)

‘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.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

The city faced the winter as best it could. It had its days of good weather, the freakish out-of-season days that always came to surprise it, as though a piece of summer had fallen from heaven out of its turn, days when the gulls looked whiter and the river wore a blue, chilled sparkle.

It was on such a day that Fitz took Mary to view the flat in Chandlers Court. He was uncertain how she would take it. She had hoped so much for a place of their own. But she realised it was best to make definite plans as soon as possible. Her own small capital was almost exhausted.

The hallway, even on so good a morning, looked grim enough. The staircase and the worn steps sagged and creaked as they climbed. But the rooms themselves were better. A large window overlooking the street gave glimpses of the mountains, now blue and bare, and admitted plenty of sunlight. Children at play in the street made sounds that were happy and tolerably distant. The large fireplace, with its marble surround left over from better days, gave plenty of room for cooking. A bedroom and a kitchenette completed the flat which, at four shillings and threepence a week was dearer, but then bigger, than average. The Kennys would be leaving in a week. When they reached the street again Mary said:

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘It suits me.’

She tightened her arm on his and said: ‘It’s a nice room but I wonder about the house.’

‘The people across the landing are all right.’

‘And above?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

Mary considered. Then she said: ‘Let’s take it, Fitz.’

‘Good,’ he said, ‘we’ll take it next week.’

‘How can we do that?’

‘I can move in with Pat,’ Fitz said.

‘Won’t he mind?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s a bit dearer, but he isn’t happy about the place we’re in.’

Joe Somerville was with Pat when Fitz made the suggestion. Pat had lit the fire and was drying a pair of drawers.

‘It’s a dearer room,’ Fitz said, ‘but I’ll stand the extra.’

‘Why don’t you move in with the girl right away?’ Pat asked.

Fitz smiled and said: ‘Some people regard that as immoral.’

‘It wouldn’t deter me,’ Pat said.

‘We all know your tastes in the matter,’ Joe said sourly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Down in Mabbot Street with Lily Maxwell.’

‘It isn’t in Mabbot Street.’

‘Then wherever it is. Fitz thinks more of himself than that.’

‘I don’t see what’s wrong with Lily Maxwell.’

‘Visiting the kip shops,’ Joe said, ‘when you get a skinful.’

‘It’s a very natural class of an occupation.’

‘It’s not Christian,’ Joe said.

‘I’ve never laid claim to being a Christian,’ Pat said, in a reasonable tone.

The steam from the drawers rose about his wrists and face and upwards towards the oil lamp on the box beside him.

‘You’ll crack the funnel of the lamp!’ Joe shouted.

He was low-sized and squat and worked for Nolan & Keyes with Pat. Pat moved the lamp back.

‘As a socialist,’ he explained, ‘I don’t regard marriage as necessary.’

‘The union of decent Christians has to be blessed by a priest,’ Joe insisted.

‘Who blessed the union of Adam and Eve, then?’ Pat asked. ‘Don’t tell me there was a priest.’