There was nothing remotely sensual in the care Maude Boylan devoted to dusting the plump curves of the two near-naked nymphs who guarded the staircase. According to Daphne, the figures, representing Prudence and Chastity, were fashioned from finest translucent alabaster and had been painted over with dark green paint only to preserve them from Dublin’s abrasive fogs. In Maude’s view, however, they were naught but a couple of chubby adolescents slathered with thick green paint to disguise the fact that they were cheap plaster casts left over from the days when the house had belonged to a demented tea-broker who, according to local legend, had been found hanging from a hook in his bedroom with the most enormous erection and a blissful smile on his face.
In memory of, if not respect for, the dear dead demented, Maude polished off her daily round by flicking each protuberant buttock with her feather before, chuckling to herself, she lugged bucket, mop and duster along the passageway to the kitchen to get down to the really serious business of scrubbing floors, sinks and lavatory pans.
What brother Hughie made of the statues the sisters never inquired. It hadn’t escaped their notice, though, that some of the girls Hughie had smuggled into his room in his shaping years had borne more than a passing resemblance to the pair in the hall and, if young Milly Bloom was anything to go by, his tastes hadn’t changed much.
‘She’s a child, Maude, a mere child.’
‘That,’ Maude said, ‘she’s not.’
‘Fifteen,’ said Daphne, ‘is not a woman.’
‘Mother was married at fifteen,’ Maude reminded her.
‘No,’ said Daphne, ‘Mother was pregnant at fifteen and married at sixteen before she knew which end was up.’
‘Well,’ said Maude, rinsing her mop at the sink, ‘I doubt if Hughie has marriage on his mind. He’s resisted so far and I see no reason to suppose if he ever does decide to take the plunge it’ll be to a penniless waif.’
‘Is she penniless?’
‘Of course she is,’ said Maude. ‘She’s Bloom’s daughter and when did Bloom ever have two farthings to rub together?’
Daphne paused in the act of dicing carrots. ‘Hughie wouldn’t marry a Jew, would he?’
‘The girl isn’t a Jew. Her mother wasn’t a Jew and Leo converted years ago. In any case, if Hughie’s mind is made up then it wouldn’t matter if the girl were a Hottentot.’
‘I’m thinking of the bloodline,’ said Daphne.
‘The bloodline!’ Maude scoffed. ‘What bloodline? We’re mongrels, my dear. If Papa hadn’t invested his horse profits in the Friendly Society we’d all be in the workhouse by now.’
‘Surely not Hughie.’
‘No,’ Maude conceded, ‘possibly not Hughie.’
A saucepan of minced beef spluttered on the stove. Daphne finished chopping and tipped the carrots into the pan. ‘Why has he brought her here, Maude?’
Maude was scouring out the mop pail with a bristle brush, her broad back bent over the task, her muscular arm, bare to the elbow, pumping. ‘Guilt,’ she said. ‘Conscience, if you prefer it.’
‘Hughie doesn’t have a conscience.’ Daphne popped the lid on the saucepan and turned down the gas. ‘Where is Milly, by the way?’
‘Resting,’ said Maude. ‘She’s putting on a brave face but what happened in court today really upset her. I gather Bloom’s been sent to Kilmainham to cool his heels while the investigation gathers steam. I rather thought it would be over by now.’
Daphne leaned on the dresser and folded her arms over her small, hard bosom. She looked down the length of the kitchen, which, like so many of the rooms in the house, suffered from a paucity of light. The door to the yard was open, though, and an arc of daylight framed her sister at the sink.
‘Maude, do you think he killed her?’
‘Bloom?’ Maude did not look up. ‘I greatly doubt it.’
‘If he didn’t …’
Maude flushed the pail with a gush of cold water and rounded on her sister. ‘Say it, just say it. Very well, I’ll say it for you: why did a detective come knocking on our door? Isn’t it obvious even to you, Daphne, that our brother was more to Molly Bloom than her concert manager?’
‘I’m not altogether blind, Maude. I knew something was going on.’ Daphne said. ‘Is it because he and Molly Bloom were … were friends that he’s looking after her daughter? If so, I’d call that charity, not conscience.’
‘Call it what you like,’ Maude said, ‘it doesn’t alter the fact that Hughie’s a suspect.’
‘What!’ Daphne exclaimed. ‘Hughie was here at home with us and drunk into the bargain.’ She paused, blinking nervously. ‘He was, wasn’t he? At home with us?’
‘Of course he was,’ said Maude.
Daphne, not convinced, dampened a washcloth under the tap and wiped the chopping board while her sister poured hot water from the kettle into the gleaming pail. ‘I feel sorry for her,’ Daphne said. ‘Child or not, she’s lost her mother and her father’s in jail.’
‘You’re too soft by half,’ said Maude. ‘Milly is Molly Bloom’s daughter and you know what a conniving creature Molly Bloom was when she wasn’t much older than Milly.’ She hefted the pail from the sink, dropped into it a pellet of lye soap and gave it a shake. ‘Look how badly she treated Leo and what a dance she led him.’
‘Especially after she lost the little boy,’ Daphne said.
‘Yes, that’s true. A kind of revenge, I suppose.’
‘On Leo? Why?’ said Daphne. ‘The little boy was his too. In any case, I really can’t imagine what all this has to do with Milly or, come to think of it, our Hughie.’
‘It’s murder, my dear, cold-blooded murder. The police are exploring all avenues of inquiry, isn’t that how the Journal puts it? Naturally, they want to talk to Hughie. As long as we stick to our guns we’ve nothing to fear.’
‘Stick to our guns? What do you mean?’
Maude lifted the pail, toted it down the length of the kitchen to the water closet that faced into the yard, placed it on the flagstones and returned to pick up the mop.
Loitering by the sink, Daphne held the mop at arm’s length. ‘Hughie did come home that night, didn’t he, Maude? You did let him in and help him to bed, didn’t you? That’s what you told the policeman.’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Maude, ‘and if that G-man comes calling again that’s what you’ll tell him: Hughie was home by midnight, drunk as a lord, and we both helped him to bed.’
‘Now that you mention it,’ said Daphne, blinking once more, ‘of course, we did,’ and handed her sister the mop.
It was just as well that Mr Bloom arrived in Kilmainham jail inside a Black Maria and did not see the prison walls close around him. He was hauled from the back of the van and hustled through two doors and down a short corridor by a couple of prison guards who clearly had no notion who he was. He had no reputation as a hero of the cause, hadn’t blown up a post office or stabbed a member of the English parliament. He was a milk-and-water Home Ruler who had once booed Joe Chamberlain at a public meeting but he was no staunch citizen of the underground elite. Consequently no one cheered when, after booking, he was led across the floor of the Great Hall and up the spidery iron staircase to the first floor gallery, carrying his blanket, pot, mug and spoon.
Mr Bloom had never thought of himself as anything other than an ordinary man struggling to earn a crust and snatch a little pleasure in the passing. But here, in the vast, vaulted East Wing of Kilmainham jail, he realised he was, in fact, invisible. He doubted if the jailers even knew he wasn’t a convict but a prisoner on remand and, unlike the other short-term inmates in this cathedral of confinement, had been found guilty of no crime.
For seven days he would be a captive of his own conscience, locked alone in a white-plastered cell with a window too high to reach and nothing to do but dwell on his grief, his fears and fantasies and, in the darkest hours of the leaden night, remember the good times with Molly and plan for the better times ahead.
It was many a year since Blazes Boylan had last had the shakes. The fit came upon him out of the blue or, more accurately, out of the dusk for now that the sun had set, D’Olier Street was filled with shadows. He had never liked the half hour when day was not quite over and night had not begun. Even he, famed for his self-assurance, was prone to brooding and, on that evening in particular, had begun to question not if but when he had lost his way.
If chance hadn’t taken him into the tailor’s shop on Eden Quay a year back in September he wouldn’t have bumped into Bloom who was there to have his trousers altered. They’d been neighbours once, briefly, Boylans and Blooms, in a tenement in Clanbrassil Street. Later, he’d flirted with Molly, to no good effect, when she hadn’t long been married. But then the Blooms had become nomads moving from one address to another and eventually he’d lost touch with them, which had been no excuse for Bloom pretending not to recognise him that day in the tailor’s shop.
‘Boylan, Blazes Boylan, man. Don’t say you’ve forgotten me?’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Boylan.’ Bloom had shaken his hand limply. ‘How are your sisters?’
‘They’re well. And Molly, Mrs Bloom?’
Soon Bloom and he were drinking in the Bleeding Horse Tavern and, as sure as night follows day, he’d met up with Molly again. The DBC restaurant just round the corner in Dame Street; Bloom, Molly and he together once more, dormant urges stirring. Tea again, Molly and he, Bloom absent. Then, after his big win on the Keogh fight, a splash dinner at his invite, and soon after that, the dance. Walking home by the Tolka in the dark afterwards, he’d squeezed her hand and, thereafter, she and he and Bloom were, all three, entwined.
He spent an hour organising Molly’s funeral, calling through the open glass-panelled door to Miss Dunne to clear his calendar for Friday. Yes, all of Friday. He telephoned the intimation to both the Journal and the Morning Star in words that conveyed nothing of the circumstances, nothing of the pain and guilt. Then, suddenly drained, he slumped back in his chair.
When he reached out to switch on the electrical lamp his hand shook. He raised his other hand, the left, and watched it shake too. His knuckles rapped uncontrollably on the desktop, drumming a ragged rhythm. He clamped left hand over right and pressed his forearms to the wood, his brow dappled with cold sweat. For a stark moment he thought he was about to drop dead at his desk.
‘What’s wrong, Mr Boylan? You don’t look well.’
Dull, dumpy Dunne in her baggy blouse and creased black skirt, peered down at him through her horn-rims as if he were a cockroach or a beetle. For a split second he almost expected her to crush him with the heel of her hand. Then, thanks be to God, he was breathing again and the cold sweat was replaced by a flush of embarrassment at being caught in a moment of weakness.
‘Shall I fetch you a glass of water?’ his secretary asked.
‘Gin,’ he answered. ‘You know where the bottle is.’
‘Water would do you more good.’
‘Just get me the bloody gin, will you?’
He watched her pad away, broad bottom registering disapproval. Twenty-eight, or was it -nine? As much a virgin as the day she’d been born, moon-faced Miss Dunne was wedded to her Underwood typewriter, too plain to poke and too valuable to sack.
He heaved himself to his feet, rolled unsteadily around the desk to the window and gazed down at the street below. Solicitors’ clerks, chaps from the news depot, women released from bondage in the Gas Company offices or the Army & Navy Stores, all bustling home or heading for a snort at the Star & Garter or an early dinner at the Red Bank Oyster bar. The very thought of tackling an oyster right now rendered him queasy.
When Miss Dunne came up behind him with a tumbler of gin and tap water, he plucked the glass from her thick fingers and took a long, uninterrupted swallow.
‘Battley’s want the poster on Renwick Street corner renewed for another three months, beginning on the 7th. What’ll I tell them, Mr Boylan? Is the rental rate the same?’
‘Summer rates apply from April.’ He drank another mouthful of watery gin, hardly tasting it. ‘You should know that by now, Miss Dunne.’ Surprised that she’d brought the bottle from the cupboard above the filing cabinet, he held out the tumbler and let her pour him another niggardly inch. ‘Put the quarter’s costing in a letter and I’ll sign it before I go.’
He turned again to the window and drank once more. The gin tasted better without tap water. He felt his nerves steady, his vigour return. The woman’s reflection hovered in the window glass, motionless, bottle in hand.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What is it now?’
‘Those letters on your desk …’
‘What letters?’
‘The typed letters … Martha.’
Blazes swung round. ‘Have you been prying again?’
‘They’re lying open on your desk, Mr Boylan, and they’re typed,’ Miss Dunne said. ‘Do you … do you want me to file them?’
‘No, they’re private.’
Motionless still, the bottle held up like a fisherman’s catch, she asked, ‘Where did you get them, Mr Boylan, those letters?’
‘None of your damned business.’ Annoyance was almost as restorative as alcohol. He waved her away. ‘Go on with you, back to your machine.’
To his amazement, she stood her ground. ‘They’re not yours, are they? I mean, they weren’t sent to you?’
‘Of course they’re not mine.’
‘Mr Boylan, will you not tell me who he is?’
‘Who who is?’
‘Henry.’
My dearest, naughty darling.
My own, my one true love.
Blazes experienced another thump below the heart, a sensation unconnected with panic or annoyance or the thought of a salty oyster slipping down the length of his digestive tract. He kept his excitement in check, hidden from his secretary.
Graciously he said, ‘Tell me, Maureen, why do you ask?’
‘I’m just … just curious, Mr Boylan, that’s all.’
He finished the gin and handed her the glass. Bottle in one hand and tumbler in the other she was powerless to fend him off. He planted a hand on her shoulder and, sticking his big Roman nose into her face, enquired, ‘You’re not Martha, by any chance?’
Her mouth opened wide enough to show a chalky white tongue and small stained teeth. He could smell onions on her breath and the perfume she sometimes wore, stale now at the day’s end. Her hair was as coarse as horse tail but, for an instant, he wondered what it would look like unpinned and if she, five years his secretary, was really capable of spanking a man’s bare backside while clad in nothing but a pair of lacy French knickers and a sailor’s hat.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, no, no.’
He rubbed his nose against hers in an Eskimo kiss that knocked her spectacles sideways. He slipped his hand from her shoulder to her breast. ‘Wouldn’t you like to be?’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you like to be Martha, whoever she is, and spank Henry’s botty?’
Again: ‘No. No, no.’
She held her arms out from her sides, balancing tumbler and bottle, and pressed her chest into his hand. If she hadn’t been wrapped in winter woollens he might have felt her spinster’s heart beating against his palm.
‘Does reading other people’s mail excite you, Maureen?’
She shook her head, sending her spectacles slanting across her cheek. With a forefinger, Blazes tipped the spectacles into place on the bridge of her nose and peered through the convex lenses into her dark brown eyes.
‘Don’t you fancy it?’ he said. ‘I mean, what Martha says she does to Mr … to Henry? I wonder what he does to her? Do you think he spanks her too? Would you like that, Maureen, to have a man put you across his lap and lift your skirts?’
‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘Stop it, please.’
‘What a naughty girl you are, Miss Dunne,’ said Blazes, grinning. ‘I can’t tell you who Henry is, or Martha, but I can tell you where to find a bit of that sort of stuff, if that’s your fancy.’
‘It’s not,’ she said stiffly, ‘my fancy at all, Mr Boylan.’
She didn’t sway or ask him to remove his paw from her breast. A twitch behind his fly buttons, nothing serious, nothing rampant; he’d been without intercourse for more than a week now and talking saucy even with dumpty Miss Dunne reminded him of it. He wondered what sort of price she’d be willing to pay to have her answer but, before that thought could take root, pushed her away.
She was dogged, that he would say for her.
‘Where did you find those letters, Mr Boylan?’
He lied glibly but unimaginatively. ‘I bought them from a fella in a pub for the price of a couple of pints.’
‘What was the fella’s name?’
‘I don’t remember. I don’t think he mentioned it.’
‘What pub was it?’
‘Look, that’s enough. I’ve more to do than prattle about dirty letters. If you’re so all-fired curious, you can read them. And if that doesn’t open your eyes to what you’ve been missing, nothing will.’ He stepped to the desk, picked up the top sheet of one of Bloom’s letters and waved it. ‘Here, take it away and read it.’
‘You didn’t buy them in any pub, did you?’ Miss Dunne said.
Temper rising, he said, ‘Are you calling me a liar?’
Fearing for her job, she backed down. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just not myself these days, Mr Boylan.’
‘None of us are, none of us are,’ said Blazes. He held up the letter. ‘To read or not to read, Miss Dunne?’
‘I think … no, it’s not for me that sort of thing.’
‘Too hot for you, is it?’ said Blazes, anger giving way to complacency. ‘Right-o, right-o. Type up the Battley letter and then you can go home.’
She held her ground for a few seconds longer. He could read nothing into her expression through the convex lenses that made her brown eyes seem so large and trusting. He felt foolish for even considering that she might be Bloom’s mysterious lover. Surely not even Bloom would be desperate enough as to take up with a woman like Maureen Dunne.
‘Will that be all, Mr Boylan?’
‘Yes,’ said Blazes. ‘That will be all for now.’
She placed the gin bottle on the desk, the tumbler too, switched on the electrical lamp and with one last glance at the letters waddled off back to her Underwood.