CHAPTER THREE

The morning was bright, the sky high and blue, on the walls of gardens not yet reached by the sun the frost was a black gleam. The carriage, as it swayed on the cobbles past the grounds of Blackrock College, gave views of the sea on the right, a wide sweep of water, a great chilled sparkle. Mrs. Bradshaw found it cold. She wrapped her furs more closely about her, reconsidering their itinerary. First to Father O’Connor, to tell him what she proposed to do. He had sent word to her immediately, asking for her instructions. He would do everything for her, of course, he would arrange all from beginning to end. But she did not want it that way. There were some things which must be attended to personally. This was one of them, a matter of individual responsibility, a question of conscience. If Mr. Bradshaw found out he would fume and rant. If necessary, that would have to be faced. For too long now the fate of her one-time servant had haunted her mind. In the little service that was left to be done to Miss Gilchrist she would not fail.

Father O’Connor, summoned to the waiting room, was surprised, she could see that. It was early. Outside, the bell was still being rung for the ten o’clock mass. A deformed and bearded creature had been dragging fiercely on the rope when she entered the church grounds. She knew what she was going to say to Father O’Connor when he protested—as he would. He would not think it fitting that she should visit Mary Fitzpatrick. She prepared herself to be inflexible.

‘Mrs. Bradshaw . . .’ Father O’Connor said, advancing to greet her.

‘You’re surprised to see me, Father?’

‘I intended to call out to you this morning. You shouldn’t have troubled to come all the way in . . .’

‘I’ve made up my mind what should be done. Miss Gilchrist will have a funeral.’

‘But of course, I’ve notified the authorities already that there must be no question of a pauper’s grave.’

‘I mean a proper funeral, with some carriages following.’

‘Carriages?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘Is that necessary?’

‘I feel it is.’

‘But—who will travel in them?’

‘She had one friend—Mary Fitzpatrick. If Mary and her husband and perhaps one or two of their friends went, it would be perfect.’

‘But . . . unnecessary, surely?’

‘For me,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said, ‘it is very necessary that this should be done as I know Miss Gilchrist would wish. Now—I want you to give me Mary Fitzpatrick’s address.’

‘Do you intend to call on her?’

‘I do.’

The answer left Father O’Connor without words. He had been standing. Now he walked to the corner of the room, took a chair and brought it to the table. He sat down.

‘Have you any idea of the surroundings you are going to visit?’

‘A tenement room?’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. ‘My husband owns several housefuls of them. There are, I understand, thousands of them. Aren’t they part of our city?’

‘They are part of our city, but not necessarily fitting places to be visited.’

Mrs. Bradshaw bowed her head. She looked down at the gloved hands which lay joined on her lap.

‘You, of all the people I know, should recognise this feeling, this absolute necessity . . .’

She stopped and looked up suddenly at him. Her eyes appealed for his understanding. He knew what she meant. No words of his would clear her of the guilt that she felt. Only restitution, given in the form which seemed to her to be fitting, would do that.

‘You are not responsible,’ he said to her. ‘You did not decide the matter. Besides, in all the circumstances—what else was there to do?’

‘I’ve asked myself that many times.’

‘And you still don’t know—isn’t that so?’

‘I know what should be done now,’ she said with decision. ‘For the moment that will be sufficient.’ Her determination impressed him.

‘Very well. I’ll give you the address. Meanwhile, let me call for some tea.’

The carriage took her back past the railway station again, under the gloomy iron bridge, past a public house on a corner where men stood in a group, talking, spitting, waiting for something to happen, for a cart to pass that was shy a helper, for someone to come along who would stand a drink, for the sun to climb a bit higher, the day to grow a bit warmer.

‘Number 3 Chandlers Court,’ she said again to the driver, raising the leather flap to project her voice to where he was sitting.

‘That’s where we’re headed ma’am,’ he assured her.

They went down a long street, took a turn right and slowed to a walk.

‘Chandlers Court, ma’am,’ he shouted in to her, ‘Number 3.’

He drew back on the reins and the carriage came to a standstill. He opened the door.

‘Wait here for me,’ she instructed. He nodded. The steps that led up to the hall were uneven, the fanlight was broken, the door stood wide open. The area showed a basement window stuffed with cardboard. From each window of the four storeys above her poles stuck out and carried ropes which supported drying clothes. It was, she could see, wash day. She went uncertainly through the gloomy hall, climbed the stairs to the front room on the first landing and knocked.

At first Mary did not recognise her. She stood staring, until at last Mrs. Bradshaw had to say, gently:

‘May I come in for just a moment, Mary?’

‘Mrs. Bradshaw . . .’

Mary opened the door wide and her guest went through. The room was clean, Mrs. Bradshaw noticed. There was very little in it. A table and a couple of rough kitchen chairs, a dresser of sorts, a long couch with a clumsy, home-made look about it and on the mantelpiece, incongruously, a large, ornamental clock.

‘Please sit down,’ Mary invited. She chose a kitchen chair. There was a fire in the grate, warm enough to keep the cooking pot and kettle simmering but not big enough to heat satisfactorily the large room. Mrs. Bradshaw saw another door to the left and surmised a bedroom. Mary sat opposite. It was the first time she had ever been seated in the presence of Mrs. Bradshaw. She sat straight and still, waiting for the other to speak.

‘You are wondering why I’ve come,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. ‘It’s about Miss Gilchrist. She . . . died yesterday.’

‘Oh,’ Mary said. The news was a shock. Death always was. Week after week you saw it in the eyes, yet week after week they opened and looked when your footsteps sounded across the floor of the ward. Recognition, a smile. Until you came to believe that it was going to go on that way, a part of the world, like making a bottle for the baby, or washing on Mondays and shopping on Saturdays. Mary nodded and said:

‘Poor Miss Gilchrist.’

‘You were very good to her.’

‘There was so little I could do.’

‘You visited her . . .’ Mrs. Bradshaw continued.

‘So little . . .’Mary repeated, not listening, and found herself crying.

Mrs. Bradshaw waited a while and then said:

‘I’ve come to ask you to do something more.’

‘Now?’

‘Miss Gilchrist will be taken from that terrible place. She will be put to rest in a proper and dignified way, with those who knew her in attendance. Father O’Connor will make the funeral arrangements. If it can be done at all, I would like you and your husband to attend. Would you do so?’

‘I’d like to,’ Mary said, ‘but we haven’t . . .’

‘Where does your husband work?’

‘With Morgan & Co.—the foundry.’

‘I’ll send a carriage for you. If your husband can’t be free, perhaps a neighbour would go with you.’

‘When will it be?’

‘In the morning to Glasnevin cemetery. I’ll go myself with Father O’Connor.’

‘I’m sure we’ll be able to manage,’ Mary said.

‘You were always a good girl,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. She rose. Mary remembered that she had not been offered hospitality.

‘May I make you some tea?’

‘You have your children to attend to . . .’

‘They’re both asleep. It’s no trouble.’

Mrs. Bradshaw wondered what would be the right thing to do. What could this bare home offer without hardship to those who lived in it? The pale, pretty face with its dark hair waited uncertainly for her answer.

‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ Mrs. Bradshaw decided, ‘but in my hand—and, please, nothing else whatever.’

She saw Mary stirring the fire under the kettle and wondered what Mr. Bradshaw would have to say if he knew she was preparing to drink tea in a tenement room. And with the servant he had dismissed. Yet she was such a civil, warm-hearted girl. And clean. Everything was clean. That was a sure sign of character, one she had always looked for when engaging.

She was handed a cup and saucer. She reached her spoon for sugar and then waited. Mary hesitated and said:

‘I beg your pardon—milk.’

She went to the sideboard. She seemed to have trouble finding what she wanted. Mrs. Bradshaw, sensing a crisis, watched. She saw her empty some from a baby’s bottle into a jug. Mrs. Bradshaw was shocked. Mary returned, smiling and said, ‘Here it is.’

Mrs. Bradshaw pretended not to have noticed. But she took as little as possible.

Mary took up a tin of condensed milk from the table and said: ‘I’d rather have this myself.’ She was apologetic.

‘Of course,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.

They drank tea in silence for some moments. At last Mrs. Bradshaw said:

‘You keep everything very nice, Mary.’

‘We haven’t much, indeed.’

‘You’ve two little children. Isn’t that a great deal?’

‘Yes’, Mary said. ‘Children are a blessing.’

‘Of course they are. Your husband is working with Morgan & Co. I do believe Mr. Yearling is a director. What’s your husband’s first name?’

‘Robert,’ Mary said, ‘he’s a shift worker.’

‘I see,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. ‘I may find an opportunity to speak to Mr. Yearling about him—that’s why I ask.’

‘It’s very kind of you,’ Mary said.

Mrs. Bradshaw left her cup down and said she really must go. Before going to the door she opened her purse and fumbled in it. She put a pound on the table. Mary was embarrassed.

‘Please, Mrs. Bradshaw—I couldn’t.’

‘There may be little expenses to meet tomorrow which neither Father O’Connor nor I will be able to attend to for you. Your husband must not be out of pocket.’

Mary held open the door for her. A group of children had gathered about the cab. Many of them, Mrs. Bradshaw remarked, were in rags. Most of them were barefooted. They cleared a passage for her and stared after the cab as it turned in a wide circle and departed. Mary, from her window, watched it go. She took the jug from the table and returned what remained of the milk to the child’s bottle. It was all the fresh milk she had. But there would be no shortage. The pound note on the table was almost a week’s wages. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed, telling her it was noon already and that Fitz would soon be returning. ‘And what is your husband’s first name?’ If Mrs. Bradshaw was interested, even a little bit, God knows what good might come of it.

The cab took them at a smart pace to the workhouse. The morning was bright again, but mild. Mary thought they might have a window open.

‘Just a little,’ she suggested to Fitz.

He unhooked the leather strap from its brass stud, eased the frame down and re-secured it. He was wearing his stiff collar and a tie. It made him look stouter, somehow, but very handsome, she thought. Pat, who was off work, had come with them for company. She was glad. The children of the neighbourhood had gathered about the cab when it called for them. It was less embarrassing to step into it when there were three of them. Pat, she thought, looked very neat too, with his serge suit and butterfly collar and bowler hat. It was such a pity he was a bit wild at times, because underneath he had a warm, kind nature. Mrs. Mulhall, who was minding the children, had waved goodbye from the window and for a moment it had felt like setting off on a day’s outing. But she reminded herself that it was to see the very last of poor Miss Gilchrist, who had been so kind to her when she had no Fitz and no children. It would be unseemly to treat it like an excursion.

At the mortuary chapel they stood for a little while beside the coffin to pray. Mrs. Bradshaw was in the grounds, but did not go into the mortuary. It was not the custom among well-to-do ladies. Father O’Connor came in, took his stole from his pocket, kissed it, placed it around his neck and prayed. He sprinkled holy water from a tiny bottle which he also carried. He acknowledged their presence with a nod, then rejoined Mrs. Bradshaw. They got into a coach together. When the hearse was ready both cabs followed it, slowly as far as the gates, more briskly as they began the journey across the city. In the second coach Pat offered Fitz a cigarette.

‘Where are we off to?’ he asked.

Fitz looked at Mary. She looked blankly back at him.

‘I never thought of asking,’ she confessed.

‘Glasnevin, probably,’ Pat decided.

‘We’ll soon know,’ Fitz said, unconcerned.

In a minute or so the cab driver confirmed their guess by turning left. They reached the quays and travelled towards the city centre. Men stopped to raise their hats as the hearse passed, women crossed themselves. People searching through the shelves outside second-hand bookshops turned to pay their respects. At the rattle of their wheels the gulls loitering along the river wall rose lazily with outstretching necks and glided down to the safety of the water.

‘It’s such a fine morning,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said, leaning forward for a moment to peer through the window.

‘It would be so unpleasant if it rained,’ Father O’Connor agreed.

‘I’d no idea how truly destitute most of your parishioners were. Even your poor clerk . . .’

‘The clerk of the church can hardly be described as destitute,’ Father O’Connor suggested. But politely. Mrs. Bradshaw’s idea of destitution and his own were bound to be different.

‘He seemed to me to be in rags,’ she answered.

Father O’Connor was puzzled.

‘When did you meet him?’

‘When I arrived yesterday morning he was ringing the bell—a bearded, very odd-looking poor creature.’

That was not the clerk. Father O’Connor wondered who it could have been. He remembered the boilerman.

‘It must have been Tierney, our boilerman.’ The discovery irritated him. What an impression to give a lady visitor.

‘He shouldn’t have been ringing the bell,’ he explained, ‘his place is in the boiler room. I must speak to the clerk about it.’

A green wreath, the ribbons bedraggled, lay at the plinth which would soon support the Parnell monument, a tribute, now several days old, from the Parnell anniversary parade. What inscription did the pedestal carry? Something about the onward march of a nation. Something to the effect that no one had the right to say—this far shalt thou go and no further?

‘A tragic poor man,’ Mrs. Bradshaw remarked, surprisingly.

An adulterer. Nevertheless, a great leader. Unfortunate entanglement. Could he not foresee—probably not. A Protestant and a patrician. Outlook quite different. Behind the euphemisms and the sentimentalities Catholic Ireland had not failed to discern the real horror. They were laying wreaths just the same. Yearling had remarked on that. De mortuis nil nisi bonum.

‘Ah yes, indeed,’ Father O’Connor said, as the laurelled sinner slipped behind.

The passers-by continued to raise their hats to Miss Gilchrist. She had joined the ranks of the dead, and commanded now their unanimous and ungrudging respect. Miss Gilchrist R.I.P. She was ennobled.

A hearse and mourning coaches stood empty outside the Brian Boru House waiting, while the mourners, their kinsman already buried, consoled themselves with alcohol. It was a custom deplored by Father O’Connor. They were talking about the dead one, praising him, exchanging remembrances of him. Sometimes they sang—an odd vehicle for the expression of grief. ‘The drunken funerals of Ireland.’ He shook his head, deploring it.

‘We are a strange people,’ Mrs. Bradshaw answered. Again her tolerance surprised him.

Inside the cemetery another funeral was in possession of the mortuary chapel. He bore the delay patiently, leaning on his umbrella as he waited. Mrs. Bradshaw beckoned Mary to come to her and enquired if everything had been as arranged. It had. She was pleased. She drew her apart and said: ‘I’ve been waiting to give you this note.’ She passed an envelope to Mary. Mary, knowing it would not be seemly at that moment to open it, put it in her pocket. Father O’Connor, turning his head for a moment, met her eyes and nodded in vague acknowledgment of her smile, which he thought had been meant for him.

Some distance away, Pat pointed out to Fitz the huge round tower which marked the resting place of Dan O’Connell.

‘Do you know what that is?’ he asked Fitz.

‘The tomb of the Liberator.’

‘They say in Kerry that you couldn’t throw a stone over a workhouse wall without hitting one of Dan’s bastards.’

‘They buried his heart in Rome, just the same,’ Fitz said. ‘It was his own request.’

Pat, who did not care for O’Connell, grunted and said: ‘I wonder where they buried his cockalorum.’

They found that the body of Miss Gilchrist was being moved into the chapel and followed. There were prayers. Then they followed the coffin down an avenue of trees, until they reached the new dug grave. The diggers passed their ropes under it and lowered it skilfully into the earth. Father O’Connor prayed, so quietly that all the time he did so they could hear the birds in the nearby trees. Soon there would be hardly any birds at all, Mary thought, soon the dead of winter would strip every remaining remnant. There would be no leaf and no wing. She wept when the first clod of earth bumped on the coffin. Then it was time to go back to the waiting coach.

They seated themselves.

‘The Brain Boru House,’ Pat suggested.

‘Please,’ Mary asked, ‘I wouldn’t like Father O’Connor and Mrs. Bradshaw to see you.’

‘We’ll let them go first then,’ Pat said.

He got out and spoke to the driver, who began to examine the harness inch by inch, as though tracing a fault. Mrs. Bradshaw’s coach passed them and went rattling down the road. The driver looked up and Pat shouted to him, ‘Coast clear.’

The driver climbed up, settled himself in the driving seat and cracked his whip. He looked very dignified.

Mary waited outside. She lay back against the padded leather and thought that she had not been in a coach since her childhood. It had been the funeral of an aunt, she remembered, on a day in summer when there were poppies spread through the grass in the country churchyard. She had been given biscuits and lemonade by her father. That was all she could remember, red poppies in long grass, worn headstones warm to touch, dust on the nettles and poppies red in the long grasses. Where was that day now? Where was the little girl in laced boots, a cousin of some sort, who had waited with her and played in the hot sun and got sick on the way home? She could not even remember her name. It was a strange thing, growing up and changing a little day by day, so slowly that you never noticed, so surely moving to maturity and old age and the front place at the funeral, having children to take in their turn the biscuits and the lemonade, to play in the sun and be sick in the evening. If you could be sure of heaven . . . She leaned towards the window and looked up at the sky. It was so high and blue it made her dizzy. One day she would close her eyes and fall into it. If she was spared to see the children reared and settled—that’s all she would ask of God. When that was done He could take her.

She pressed back against the leather, alone in the cab, alone, for a moment, in the world. If she got out and strolled up and down it would make no difference. If she went in and sat with the men and drank port wine it would still make no difference. She was trapped by life and by mortality. She began to wish Fitz would come out. When he did she leaned forward to welcome him, as though he had been away for some days. The driver climbed into his seat. Fitz shouted ‘Go ahead’ and closed the door.

‘Where’s Pat?’ she asked.

‘He’s not coming.’

She frowned.

‘He met someone he knew inside.’

‘Does that mean he’ll spend the day drinking?’

‘No,’ Fitz said, ‘he has other plans. Do you remember Lily Maxwell?’

Mary did. The girl who, from all accounts, was no better than she should be.

‘He hasn’t seen her for ages. While we were inside he met someone who knows where she’s living.’

‘Any man would be better away from women like that.’

It was a woman’s view. Fitz did not share it. He knew Lily meant much to Pat.

‘Not always,’ Fitz said.

Mary touched his hand and he turned to her. She asked: ‘Do you love me?’

The question surprised him. Something had upset her. He wondered what it could be.

‘Of course I love you.’

It was both an answer and a question. She left it unanswered. His reply had satisfied a need in her that she no longer tried to understand. She was content to leave her hand in his, to feel her reassurance return slowly as the cab travelled through the bright streets of the city, towards their couple of rooms and the insecure world in which her children waited. Thinking of her home, she remembered for the first time the note Mrs. Bradshaw had left with her. She took it from her pocket and opened it. It contained three one-pound notes. She drew them out.

‘Where did this come from?’ Fitz asked.

‘Mrs. Bradshaw gave me the envelope in the cemetery.’ There was a letter, which she passed to Fitz. He read aloud:

‘My dear Mary,

This will help you and your husband to provide something in the way of a special treat for your children. Accept it on their account.

Since I called to you I have been clearing out some old furniture and some floor coverings which I propose to send to you within a few days. You will be able to make use of them, I feel sure.

I have had the full story of your visits to Miss Gilchrist and consider your kindness to that old and friendless poor soul does you very great credit. God will reward you for that, as He promised long ago “one hundredfold”.

Believe me when I say that your goodness has been most praiseworthy indeed.

Florence Bradshaw’

Fitz handed back the letter.

‘That should make you happy.’

‘The furniture will be wonderful, won’t it?’ she said.

Father O’Connor, having sent the housekeeper to fetch the clerk, watched at the window for their arrival. Sunlight lay on the courtyard outside and slid past the brass flower bowl in the window to fall on worn linoleum. It was a pleasant room which at the moment smelled of polish—a clean and agreeable smell. If his own room caught the sun for even an hour or two of the day it would have been entirely transformed. As it was it remained dark and damp and almost always depressing.

Sunlight meant so much. At the funeral today, for instance, it had been so pleasant: the earth dry and firm, the breeze mild and agreeable, a perfect setting for an extremely edifying occasion. Miss Gilchrist had received a fitting reward for faithful service; Mrs. Bradshaw had performed a quite singular act of charity. People like Yearling might laugh and say they did not care a fig where they were buried or by whom; but then Yearling, for all his unusual perceptiveness, did not understand the poor. The Fitzpatricks, too, had behaved very well—neither too forward nor too awkward. He seemed a respectable type of man to be mixed up with Larkin and strikes. But that was part of the tragedy—the good and the bad alike were being drawn in. If people of title were now choosing to associate with such things, was it fair to blame the ordinary workman for being misled? Mrs. Bradshaw might take an interest there. He might speak to her. The man had gone out of his way to help him on that dreadful night.

The housekeeper and the clerk crossed the courtyard. There was a light tap on the door.

‘Come in.’

The clerk was wearing a frayed and faded soutane that reminded him, like everything else in the parish, of a rag-and-bone shop.

‘Have you no better soutane than that?’

‘I have indeed, Father.’

‘Is the good one very uncomfortable or something?’

‘I was cleaning the novena lamps—a dirty job.’

‘I see.’

There was always some excuse.

‘You wouldn’t want me getting oil stains up to me elbows, would you?’

The voice was not what it should be.

‘I would have you moderate your tone,’ Father O’Connor suggested, coldly.

The clerk frowned, making it plain that he was annoyed. Clerks everywhere were the same, Father O’Connor reflected. They grumbled, they disapproved, they argued back. He would not do it with Father Giffley though. Indeed no. Afraid.

‘It was reported to me this morning that Tierney the boilerman was ringing the bell for the ten o’clock mass.’

‘I let him do it when I’m busy,’ the clerk said. He was offhanded—deliberately so.

‘You mustn’t allow it in future.’

‘He thinks it a great privilege.’

‘What he thinks about it doesn’t matter in the least,’ Father O’Connor insisted. It isn’t seemly.’

‘Seemly,’ the clerk repeated. ‘I declare to God, Father, I don’t follow you at all. What’s unseemly about a poor man pulling a bell-rope to give me a hand.’

It was always so. Nothing was accepted simply. Everything had to be argued in St. Brigid’s.

‘Tierney is the boilerman. He is not very clean. His appearance—to say the least about it—is extremely odd. We mustn’t let the bell-ringing become a music-hall turn for the parish gapers.’

‘Father Giffley never objected.’

‘I am quite sure Father Giffley knows nothing about it or he would. Anyway, kindly attend to the bell-ringing yourself in the future.’

‘Whatever you say, Father.’

Once again the tone of voice was disrespectful.

‘That will be all.’

‘I see.’

The clerk, stern-faced, angry, withdrew. Some hours later, when the three priests were at the evening meal, Father Giffley said: ‘You were speaking to the clerk about the ringing of the bell.’

‘I see, the clerk has complained to you.’

‘He has the excellent habit,’ Father Giffley said, ‘of referring such matters to his parish priest.’

‘The boilerman was ringing the bell. It looks most unseemly.’

‘You saw him?’

‘Not personally. It was reported to me.’

‘It didn’t occur to you to consult my views.’

‘I was certain they would be the same as mine.’

‘I am still your parish priest,’ Father Giffley said. The deep, red colour was in his cheeks and forehead. Father O’Connor lowered his eyes.

‘It seemed such a small matter—I am sorry.’

‘I have already issued instructions. In the future—as in the past—Tierney may help the clerk whenever it is required.’

‘Very good, Father.’

Father O’Connor knew he was being humiliated. It was deliberate. It was putting him in the wrong with the clerk and the boilerman, placing him below the ragtag and bobtail. That hurt almost unbearably—that and the contempt which was now unconcealed. He beat down anger and rebellion, kept them from showing in his face, guarded each movement of hands and head, pushed them back when they sought other means of entry. He did so by fixing his thoughts inflexibly on obedience. To be obedient was everything. Humiliation, the sting of wounded pride, the knowledge of being unloved and unrespected by another, these things did not matter at all, if one could become truly as nothing, if one could empty the house of Self and be stripped utterly.

Over a cup of tea and a half-eaten egg, Father O’Connor fought to possess Christ.

Pat stopped to check the name of the road. It was as the man in the Brian Boru House had informed him. There were parallel rows of small, two-storey houses with tiny gardens in front. It was quiet, respectable. Closed doors kept each household to itself, curtained windows gave away no secrets. A door opening and closing somewhere down the cul-de-sac startled Pat and sent the air trembling. He looked down the road and recognised Lily immediately, although as yet she was too far away for him to see her face. She was coming towards him. It was a piece of luck he had not bargained for. Watching her, he began to tremble a little. She might still not want to speak to him. He waited. She came forward, unsuspecting, with easy, unconcerned movements. When she was some yards from him he shouted: ‘Lily.’

She faltered. The serge suit, the butterfly collar, the bowler hat did not seem to match the voice. Then she recognised him and stopped.

‘My God,’ she said, ‘have they made you Lord Mayor or something?’

Delight made his heart jump. She was herself. She was accepting him in the old way.

‘Lily,’ he repeated. To say her name helped to release the pressure of tenderness inside him and made speech easier.

‘Where did you spring from?’

‘I found out at last where you were living.’

‘And you were coming to see me?’

‘I was hoping to see you, Lily.’

‘Is that why you’re wearing the regimentals?’

‘No. I was at a funeral.’

‘I might have guessed. It’s a bit of a hobby of yours, isn’t it, going to weddings and funerals.’

She was smiling at him. He thought she looked more lovely than ever, her eyes lively, her face quick with banter. He said suddenly:

‘Come with me somewhere, anywhere. I want to talk to you.’

She laughed at him.

‘Please . . . Lily.’

‘All right. Where?’

‘The Park?’

She hesitated. Then with an odd air of decision said: ‘I don’t mind—I’m free today.’

‘We’ll get a tram at the bottom of the road. Come on.’

He was glad now to be wearing the bowler and the serge suit. They fitted the occasion. The day was still mild enough to make it pleasant on top of the tram. When they passed by Nelson’s Pillar, Lily said: ‘This is the first time I’ve been down here in two years.’

He saw his opportunity to question her.

‘I know that. But why?’

He was sorry almost immediately. She stiffened.

‘How did you know?’

‘I enquired about you. I couldn’t help asking after you. No one had seen you.’

For the first time since their meeting he saw the old look of hurt in her eyes.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ she said.

She slipped her arm through his, a gesture that reassured him and filled him with an intense pleasure.

They walked the hill of the Phoenix Park. The trees, exposed on its height, were stripped almost bare; in the valley below, a silver gleam between green slopes, the Liffey flowed towards Islandbridge and the city. They had walked here many times in the past; in the season of hawthorn, when the air was full of white petals and fragrance; in the season of lilac and laburnum; in the dying of the year when the paths, as now, were thick with fallen leaves. Sometimes they had listened to the military band which played on Sundays in The Hollow. Pat remarked that.

‘I wish there was a band.’

She said: ‘No bands today, Pat.’

But the air was better than any band, and the light, streaming down from behind high clouds, picked out isolated green patches on the slopes of the Dublin mountains. They found a seat that was sheltered and sat down. Pat took a paper bag from his pocket and handed it to her.

‘What’s this?’

She opened the bag and looked.

‘God—it’s a long time since anyone bought me sweets. When did you get these?’

‘When I was on my way across to look for your house.’ She took one and offered him the bag, but he refused.

‘You were at a funeral this morning. Had you anything to eat?’

‘I had a sandwich in the Brian Boru.’

She dismissed that.

‘A sandwich for a grown man,’ she said, ‘that’s no way to look after yourself.’

He waited, not quite sure if this was the moment to plunge. He made up his mind.

‘Maybe you’d do the looking after for me.’

She selected another sweet with exaggerated care and fixed her eyes on the glen below. It was damp in its lower reaches; the branches of the tangled hawthorns were black against the light.

‘Meaning what, Uncle Pat?’ Her tone was light. But lines of caution moulded her face.

‘I want you to marry me.’

She threw back her head.

‘God, will you listen to him.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘You used to say you didn’t believe in marriage.’

‘I don’t. But everyone else does. Well . . .’

She continued to be interested in the black branches near the bottom of the glen.

‘Not a chance,’ she said.

He took it without protest and remained silent. She held the bag towards him without looking at him.

‘Have a sweet,’ she invited. She was matter-of-fact, offhand. He made no movement. When she looked around his face was full of suffering. She let down the bag, leaned her hands on his knee and kissed him on the cheek.

‘I’m sorry.’ She had dropped her matter-of-factness. He put his hand on her shoulder, turning her towards him.

‘I love you, Lily.’

‘When did you find that out?’

‘The night you walked away from me.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘Glad?’

‘Glad you love me—not glad I walked off on you.’

He kissed her. He held her against him, letting the hurt and loneliness of two years find what release it could. He knew, for the moment anyway, that she wanted him to hold her.

‘I’ve been thinking about you all the time, Lily.’

‘Dear Pat.’

‘Why did you walk off like that. You weren’t as angry as you let on to be, I know that. Were you just fed up with me and all of us?’

‘Not with you, Pat.’

‘With the others?’

‘With the others and with myself.’

‘Why? What happened? Tell me—please, Lily.’

‘I’ll tell you,’ she promised, ‘just give me a minute or two.’

She released herself and sat thinking. He waited. It seemed to him that everything else, the stripped trees, the green slopes, the damp mist in the hollow, the black branches, the whole world waited with him. He looked at her face and it was unhappy again. It tempted him to tell her not to answer, to say it was all right. He could not. He must know where he stood.

‘Well?’ he asked, after an interval.

‘If you want to know,’ she said at last, ‘I got a dose of something.’

He knew what she meant. There was no need to ask questions. He thought carefully.

‘That wouldn’t make any difference to me.’

‘You’re daft,’ she said.

‘Did you go anywhere? Did you get treatment?’

‘I went to a fellow that Maisie knew. That’s how I came to spend your money.’

‘And you wouldn’t tell me.’

‘I was ashamed.’

Her own admission surprised her. She tried to laugh at it.

‘Imagine Lily being ashamed,’ she said.

‘Did he do any good?’

‘I think he did the trick, all right. Maisie swears by him. But you can never be sure, can you?’

‘I don’t know,’ Pat said. It was a subject he knew very little about. One thing he was quite certain of. It made no difference.

‘I’m still asking you, Lily.’

‘But I couldn’t, Pat. Supposing something happened to you.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Or supposing there were children. Jesus—imagine that! Children brought into the world and that already rotting them.’

She began to cry. He took her to him and held her fiercely. He was angry now, with the green slope, and the black boughs, with everything that dared to remain aloof from Lily’s suffering.

‘Lily. We needn’t have children. We needn’t do anything like that at all. We can marry and be with each other.’

‘You think that would be enough?’

‘I do.’

‘I wouldn’t do that on you,’ she said, gently. She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek.

‘But if I’m the one who wants it that way?’

She shook her head. She was staring again at the hawthorn boughs. He knew it would be no use to go on. For the present, anyway, there was no purpose to it. She was in his arms willingly, gratefully. For the moment that was sufficient happiness.

‘After you left me, did you think of me at all?’

She said: ‘At first I thought about nothing except it. I got work in a place in Glasnevin and never went near town except to see this doctor fellow. I hated everybody. Then, when it seemed to clear up, I knew I’d never go back to the old places. I was a fool to think that sort of life would suit. The funny thing was, when I made up my mind about that, I began to think about you. I thought quite a lot about you.’

‘What did you think?’

‘That I hadn’t been very fair to you. It was the way I felt at the time. I’m sorry, Pat.’

‘It doesn’t matter, now. Do you think you could love me, Lily?’

She did not answer immediately. When she spoke it was to say: ‘It’ll be dark very soon. We should think of getting home.’

‘Lily . . . ?’

She looked up at him for some time, her eyes wide and beautiful.

‘Yes I think I might.’

That was sufficient. The rest could wait. He kissed her again and they got up. Behind the mildness of the air there was a chill, the evening damp rising from earth and grass. Night was moving stealthily among the bushes and the branches, treading warily after the vanished sun, flowing noiselessly over the stripped trees and the heights, spreading unresisted across the plains of Ireland.

They walked back towards the city with the river below them still luminous in the twilight, the trees ghostly, the air chilled and earthy. At the Park gate the river broadened and became defiled and smelled like a slum. The tramcars passed them, twinkling with lights.