CHAPTER FOUR

There were few days left of sunshine and mildness. The evenings drew in, fog drifted across the city, sometimes thickly, sometimes light and noticeable only because each lamp along the street wore a shimmering corona. Mary, thinking of Christmas, looked about a living room that had been transformed. There was a fine oval table in the centre with a tasselled covering and four good chairs about it. There was a sideboard with a mirror and a rug which she put before the fireplace when the day’s cooking was done. There was an easy chair for Fitz and a matching one for herself. They were well worn, but decent looking. The clock which Pat had given them on their wedding night still stood on the mantelpiece. It added an elegant touch to the room. Sometimes she looked at the furniture as it was reflected in the mirror of the sideboard. For some reason the reflection made it more real. They had sold some odd pieces and bought a second-hand pram. It was not much use just then, with the days so cold and short. But there would be spring and summer. Time would pass quickly. They could walk out together to Sandymount and Merrion again. They could bathe and then sit on the sands and look out to Howth with the sea around it. Everything seemed easy and worth while now. It would have taken them years to build up such a home. It had come to them in a single afternoon, in a delivery van drawn by two horses, about which the children of the street had gathered to gape.

Father O’Connor saw it and admired it. He praised Mrs. Bradshaw’s generosity. He said he knew they appreciated their good fortune. He hoped her husband would be able now to put everything else out of his mind and work steadily for the good home that was theirs. He had in mind, he said, the labour troubles that were bringing misery and want into homes that could enjoy that peace which was the hallmark of the Catholic family. As he went down the street afterwards he passed Rashers Tierney, who took off his hat and said, with irritating energy:

‘There’s yourself, Father.’

‘Good evening,’ Father O’Connor answered.

His voice had a cold edge to it. That was unintentional. He wished to have no grudge against this poor, limping oddity. That would be a strange way for a priest to behave. Indeed it would. What had the poor old man done, except what he had been told to do—and told to continue doing. Naturally, he would see nothing unfitting in a bundle of galvanised rags tolling the church bell.

There were other things to be thought about. Winter and cold rooms. Hunger and empty stomachs. The sting of pride which had almost mastered him when Father Giffley rejected his decision about Tierney could be chastised by taking up again the thankless task of providing a little relief for want and misery. He had given in too easily. The time to put into practice his resolution to make amends had come. The job of distribution would be one for Timothy Keever and the Confraternity Committee. Strictly speaking, Mr. Hegarty should supervise the arrangements, but the head prefect, he had noticed, was not so familiar with the deserving cases and did not seem to have much relish for that kind of work. It would be quite wrong to blame the man. Hegarty was a tradesman, and tradesmen were careful to keep themselves aloof from the ragtag and bobtail.

Once again they brought down the foodstuff from his bedroom and spread it out in the room behind the vestry. They made out a list. Some would receive money; others, who might put money to the wrong use, would receive parcels. The procedure was to be the same.

‘I want you to avoid any who are on strike—as far as seems reasonable.’

That was painful, perhaps, but absolutely necessary. In all justice.

‘When I say reasonable I mean that you will not give out parcels indiscriminately to strikers, because for one thing, it is a disservice to themselves to encourage them and, in addition, we must not appear to seek charity from well disposed people in order to make it possible for their employees to hold out against them—that would hardly be a just arrangement.’ Father O’Connor wondered if they understood.

‘On the other hand, if there is extreme want or sickness in a home or some factor of that kind you could overlook the fact that one of the victims may also, incidentally, be involved in a labour dispute.’

‘We’ll consult you, Father,’ Keever said.

Father O’Connor frowned. He did not want to be set up as an arbitrator in such things.

‘That shouldn’t be necessary if you use your own judgment,’ he decided.

They went around the streets again each evening after work, a small band of devoted workers. Keever wore the long, black overcoat and the bowler hat which was his Sunday uniform. It was easy to help the old. They crouched over small fires or lay in rough beds and took the smallest kindness with gratitude. But with men who were only destitute because there was no one to hire the labour of their bodies it was different. They watched their wives accepting charity and gave none of the usual signs of gratitude. Their attitude made him cautious. It showed they had not forgotten. Once, he ran into trouble. He had a parcel to spare at the end of a long night of visits. Thinking he would leave it in the house with someone and get home, he said to the woman he was dealing with:

‘Is there anyone else in the house that’s out of work?’

‘Mrs. Moore’s husband has been idle this while back.’ That seemed all right. He was very tired and the room depressed him. It was practically bare of furniture. All he could see was the rough table. There was a candle burning on that, which threw more shadows than light. The woman’s husband was over by the uncurtained window, watchful, a silhouette.

‘And where does she live?’

‘Just above us—on the next landing.’

He decided to go up. The two men with him were already making for the door when the woman added:

‘Her husband is on strike, God help her.’

Keever stopped and turned. There was a note of genuine disappointment in his voice.

‘In that case, ma’am, I’m afraid I’ll have to go further.’ He turned again to find that her husband had come between him and the door.

‘What’s wrong with being on strike?’

Keever, careful not to shoulder full responsibility, said: ‘I have my instructions.’

‘Whose instructions?’

‘Father O’Connor’s.’ Immediately he regretted it. It was indiscreet. Father O’Connor would certainly think so. The man took the family’s parcel from the table and pushed it into Keever’s arms.

‘If Father O’Connor thinks he’s going to beat Jim Larkin with cocoa and sugar,’ he said, ‘you can tell him what to do with his parcel.’

Timothy Keever backed away. Burdened now with both parcels, he struggled clumsily to open the door.

‘There you are—that’s the thanks you get,’ one of his helpers said, as they trooped down the stairs. The voice was disgruntled and lacking in conviction. Was there yet another waverer in the Confraternity? That was the way Larkinism spread and grew, even among the selected workers of the Church. He felt no personal grudge, all he wished was to get to heaven. If the road to travel was through obedience and good works only it would hold little hardship. It looked now, though, that it would be through suspicion, unpopularity, insult, as well.

‘We are not working just to be thanked,’ he pointed out.

He told his wife about it that night as they sat over supper in his cottage by the railway line. She agreed that it might have been a mistake. They worried about it together, listening to the occasional thundering of trains that passed by their back garden, where the now weathered statue watched with joined hands and the surrounding railings creaked in the rigours of wind and winter.

The news reached Mulhall and from him it went to Fitz.

‘I’m going to see this Father O’Connor,’ Mulhall decided. Fitz thought that unwise.

‘What does it matter?’ he said.

But Mulhall had made up his mind.

‘I’ll deal with Keever too,’ he said.

‘O’Connor will fling you out.’

‘Let him try,’ Mulhall said.

Mulhall was a big man with iron-grey hair and a sure way of walking that inspired confidence in those who worked with him. He liked the new movement well. It was direct and simple. Demand, refusal, strike. He worked for Doggett & Co. under constant threat of dismissal. One slip and he was out of his job, with little hope of being jobbed elsewhere. He was well known as a troublemaker. In the eyes of Doggett he thrived on trouble. Where others bent, Mulhall bloomed. The shoulders straightened, the chest stuck out, the face settled into firm lines of confidence and composure. His demands were conveyed simply—to the yard foreman, to the superintendent, even to Doggett himself.

‘No work after four o’clock on Saturdays, Mr. Doggett.’

‘You’ll work when you’re told, Mulhall.’

‘Mr. Larkin wrote to you. Why didn’t you answer him?’

‘I don’t have to reply to Mr. Larkin.’

‘That’s gameball. We don’t have to work after four on Saturdays either.’

‘I’ll get rid of you, Mulhall, if this nonsense continues.’

‘Right. I’ll let the men know.’

‘You’ll let them know what?’

‘That you’re getting rid of me.’

‘That’s enough. You’ll hear more about this.’

But Mulhall remained in his job. Doggett knew better. Strike fever had hit the city. One ended, another began. It was better to settle up. For the moment. Later on the cure for the epidemic would be found. Already more powerful and more resourceful minds were at work on the problem.

Father O’Connor received Mulhall in the visitors’ room and began the interview at a disadvantage. He had expected one of the usual enquiries; an appeal for spiritual advice, a request for help. It took him some time to grasp that this huge, rough-looking working man was taking him to task. It was quite an incredible situation. He tried at first not to look at it that way.

‘You have some objection to our distributing relief?’

His voice was controlled.

‘We’ve an objection to Timothy Keever.’

‘You have . . . ? May I ask why?’

‘He goes about making fish of one and flesh of another.’

‘In what way?’

‘Asking women if their husbands are on strike and telling them they’ll get nothing if they are.’

‘Those are my instructions.’

‘If they are they’re no instructions for a priest to give.’

‘You are being insolent now.’ The tone had changed.

‘Mr. Doggett’s fond of saying that too.’

‘Mr. Doggett?’

‘The boss. He locked us out twice in the past twelve months. We gave him his bellyfull.’

‘You keep saying “we”. Who are “we”?’

‘Myself, the other carters, Jim Larkin.’

So it had come into the room to him. All that he had read, all that he had heard from the platform when on impulse he had followed the procession, was standing in the room with him. He should have recognised it earlier.

‘If you follow Mr. Larkin, you have no business coming to me.’

‘I’m a Catholic. I don’t want to be made ashamed of my Church.’

The voice had grown angry. Father O’Connor’s first impulse was to order the man to go. He changed his mind. He had learned that he was unable to do such things without losing dignity. He could never impress or terrify as Father Giffley could.

‘You are the one who should be ashamed,’ Father O’Connor said. ‘You are turning your back on the Church to follow her enemies.’

‘I thought the Church should be on the side of the poor.’

This was no ordinary workman.

‘And so we are,’ Father O’Connor said, gently.

‘You couldn’t be. You backed Mr. Doggett. You back the landlords. You told Timothy Keever to see that anyone on strike was left to stew.’

‘Socialism is an evil doctrine and Mr. Larkin is one of its propagandists. It attacks property and the Church Herself. If you are a Catholic you should do what the Church tells you. You must trust the wisdom of your priests.’

‘In their proper sphere, Father.’

Father O’Connor recognised the phrase. It came from the platforms. This illiterate man was beginning to consider himself competent to determine the sphere of the Church’s influence, to place bounds to the radiation of a wisdom that was nineteen centuries old. How could he explain the arrogance of that?

‘You are misled and I am sorry for you. Now I must ask you to leave.’

The man went quietly, too quietly. He closed the door behind him without another word. Father O’Connor remained in the visitors’ room for some time. The bishop had spoken out clearly about this new movement. Priests all over the city had preached on its evils. There could be no misunderstanding. But something was going wrong. Humble people were no longer listening. Were they beginning to believe the Reformers, to think that a world without God could be turned into an Utopia? He took out his pocket book and wrote carefully: ‘What shall it profit a man if, gaining the whole world, he suffereth the loss of his own soul.’ He would use it as the text for a future sermon.

It was raining. Cabs and occasional motor cars splashed through muddy streets. The gas-lamps steamed lightly. Mulhall pulled his cap down on his forehead and turned up the collar of his jacket. He felt warm inside him, in spite of the chill of the rain. It was the battle glow. It showed in the line of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. He was the father of the old women who passed him with shawls drawn tight over their heads. He was brother to the old men who sheltered against public house fronts and waited, hopefully, for someone who would bring them in for a drink and maybe a smoke. He was God, and the small boy who passed pushing a battered pram was his creature. Rain had plastered the boy’s hair about his face and the pram was piled with rain-soaked firewood. It was his creature and all his creatures were wet, cold, hungry, barefooted.

They would change that. Not by talk though. Do something. Keep on all the time doing something. Even if it led to trouble. Trouble attracted attention. People you wanted to rouse always took an interest when you did something. There were ways of dealing with Keever. Put the fear of God into others who might feel like following his example.

Mulhall went in for a drink. He wanted to think and he wanted to consult the clock. It was nearly half past eight. He said to the curate: ‘Your clock right?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘I’ll have a half of malt,’ he decided.

He was in Keever’s district. A turn off the main street and he would be among the warren of cottages that ended with their backs against the railway line. The trouble was, he was not quite sure of the address. The curate, bringing the whiskey, remarked: ‘That’s a bit of a sprinkle.’

Mulhall looked round at the long windows. Rain was beating against them.

‘A good night,’ he said, ‘for ducks.’

‘Keeps the customers indoors.’

Keever was likely to be at home. It would be worth trying.

‘Do you know Timothy Keever? He works for Nolan & Keyes?’

‘I’ve heard talk of him.’

‘I’m looking for his address.’

‘Hold on,’ the curate said. He went off into the back of the shop. After a while he came back.

‘The basket boy works in the grocery end during the day,’ he said. ‘He knows the house.’

He gave Mulhall directions, tracing out the turns on the counter with a finger he had moistened in porter dribbles.

‘Number 43,’ he said at last, ‘here.’ He drew a circle on one of the lines.

‘Thanks,’ Mulhall said.

He went out into the street again. The rain drove hard against him. He bent a little towards it. Otherwise he did not mind it. All his life he had faced the weather from the seat of his cart. Wind, cold, rain, snow, they were enemies he had long mastered. Only children he pitied. And old people. Weather, among other things, killed both. One thing you couldn’t change. The weather. But you could protect them against it. Proper clothes would do it. Boots for the feet, coats for the body. The poorer and hungrier they were, the less fitted to stand up against weather. The poorer and the hungrier, the more often they had to face it. To chop up and sell firewood. To go out gathering the debris of the city. Who would stop that? Larkin would, with Mulhall doing his part in all the ways that he could.

He was among the cottages now. He looked out for street names. There was a lamp at each corner, but the name plates were hard to make out in the driving rain. He knocked at several doors for directions and went down street after street where cottages huddled under the downpour and overfull gutters splashed noisily. At last, in a cul-de-sac that the wall of the railway line sealed off, he found the house. Keever himself answered the door. Mulhall recognised him. He gripped him by the lapels and dragged him quickly into the street.

‘I want you,’ he said.

The cottage door, caught by the wind, moved slowly, gathered pace, closed with a loud bang.

‘Mulhall.’

‘You’re a scab, Keever.’

‘Let me go.’

‘Not until I show you and every other scab in this town what happens to strike-breakers.’

‘I’m breaking no strike. Let me go.’

They were against the railway wall. High, featureless, blackened with soot and rain, it rose above both of them. Keever braced himself against it.

‘You’re using charity parcels to break a strike.’

‘I’m serving the poor.’

‘You’re a liar. You’re selling them.’

Keever twisted but failed to free himself.

‘You’ll do six months’ hard if you touch me.’

‘Gladly,’ Mulhall said.

Keever pushed forward. Mulhall gave ground, then swung hard and connected. He dragged Keever to his feet again. They struggled together until Mulhall landed again. Then he began to beat up Keever, on the body, on the head, until Keever lay against the railway wall, rain and blood mixing together on his swollen face. He fixed Mulhall with eyes that were only half open. He struggled for breath.

‘Six months,’ he said.

Mulhall turned and left him. Halfway up the street he heard a door opening and a woman’s voice calling. Then he heard the woman scream out. He continued to walk at the same pace. He reached the corner, turned it, continued his deliberate stride.

In the morning the police came for him. They hammered on the door while he and his son were getting ready for work. They entered without ceremony.

‘I’ll go with you,’ he said.

Mrs. Mulhall sat on the bed. She was crying. His son looked on but said nothing.

‘Who’s this?’ the police said.

‘My son. He’s a messenger in the Independent.’

‘Where was he last night?’

‘In his bed. He’d nothing to do with it.’

They accepted that. Mulhall walked between them down the stairs and out on to the street. The sky was still dark, but the early-morning lamps shone out from windows above and about them.

‘You’ll be locked up for this,’ one of the policemen told him.

‘I’m not the first,’ Mulhall said, ‘and I won’t be the last.’

The lighted windows above and about him filled him with tenderness and smouldering anger. He was God and all his creatures were in bondage. He had been cruel, as God often seemed to be. But he had served them. When he came back he would serve them again. That was what his birth had been for. It was a good thing, in middle age, after years of despondency and search, to know why he had been born. He did not mind walking up the street, his arms pinioned by police; he would not mind the stares of the city as he was being dragged for trial. It did not matter, because he was entirely certain now about everything, about who he was and what God had made him for.

The justice said it was a disgraceful charge. He had beaten a man whose only sin was to work in Christian charity for the welfare of others. He had insulted, by his conduct, the person of a priest. His conduct was an example of what could be expected in the future from an anarchical movement, if decisive steps were not taken to suppress it. Mulhall said nothing in defence. He was sentenced, as Keever had predicted, to six months’ imprisonment with hard labour.

Father O’Connor mounted the steps to the pulpit and looked at the congregation for some moments with unusual gravity. He had already assisted Father Giffley with the distribution of holy communion, because it was the monthly mass of the men’s sodality and there were many communicants. Behind him Father Giffley sat to the side of the altar, his biretta on his head, his hands resting palms downwards on each knee, his head slightly bowed. Father O’Connor read the notices and the names of those who had died recently or whose anniversaries occurred. Then he signed himself in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost and began to speak.

‘My dear brethren: For some time I have had it in mind to talk to you on a subject which has been a source of ever-increasing distress, not only to me, but to those in Holy Orders who are far above me in holiness, in wisdom, in experience. I might have continued to hesitate in the hope—indeed, in the confident belief—that the advice of your priests would triumph over the promptings of evil men. I refer to those who have been working among you for some years now to spread discontent and a godless creed.’

He stopped to assess their measure of attention. It was not great. The hour was early, they had come without breakfast to receive holy communion, the church was damp and unusually cold. The odour of tightly packed bodies made the air unpleasant. Throughout mass someone had been coughing persistently. It began again now in the silence. A chorus of coughs and snuffles responded. Father O’Connor found it necessary to raise his voice.

‘Our hopes have not been fulfilled and our advice has gone unheeded. Only a few days ago, in this parish of ours, a good and conscientious man suffered a brutal assault.’

The coughing stopped. He had their attention.

‘The hand of the law has reached out to the perpetrator of this outrage; he is now paying the penalty. With him—we need not concern ourselves any further. But what must concern us very deeply indeed is the reason given for the attack I have just mentioned. The reason put forward was that the unfortunate victim was attempting to interfere against a strike engineered by professional exploiters of discontent. The allegation, of course, was not true. The man was simply performing a Christian duty, distributing charity in Christ’s name, offering a little relief to the destitute. But the incident serves well to illustrate the attitude of these self-styled Reformers towards any activity of religion. It shows their hatred of it, their anger at it, their determination to oppose the work of God at any cost and in any shape or form.’

That rang effectively. He paused, but it was spoiled again by the long rasping coughs of one man. Before the rest began unconsciously to join him, Father O’Connor spoke.

‘It is a wet morning, my dear brethren, you have risen early to fulfil your duty to God, I will not detain you now by speaking at length on this subject. I only ask you to keep it in mind for what it is—an insult to God and an insult to those who were ordained to preach His gospel. When next these men urge you to extreme courses, when they try to win your support and your confidence, when they declare—as they have done—that they respect religion and seek only the order that is God’s—when they do this recall the incident I have referred to, and the many others that have occurred throughout our city. You will know then where they really stand. You will be able to see that for all their fair words and protestations of concern for poverty and hunger, they are enemies of God and of His Church. In that way you will keep to Truth. And you will ensure that no more unfortunate victims will suffer physical assault at the hands of God’s enemies.’

That seemed to be enough. Father O’Connor allowed his eyes to rest steadily on the upturned faces for some seconds. Then he signed himself very deliberately, saying again: ‘In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’

They answered ‘Amen’.

Rashers got up to leave as Father O’Connor did. The cough phlegm in his throat thickened and refused to be dislodged. He struggled so hard for breath that he almost fell. A neighbour grasped him by the shoulders and led him outside. Rashers nodded his thanks, then leaned against the arch of the porch on his own. The rain clung to his unkempt beard but the air was cool and moist and easier to breathe. He gulped at it until he felt its cold bulk on his lungs. He rested, coaxing his heart to find a slow, regular beat. Soon mass would be over, the people would come crowding about him. They would look at him, some of them with pity. That was something he never sought and did not like. If he had a drop of whiskey it might do the trick, straighten him out for the job of stoking the furnace which he had been unable to tackle early that morning. As the first trickle of the congregation began to move about him, he stirred himself and decided that he must ask the housekeeper. She was a kind enough woman.

He managed to get as far as the basement door. While she was opening it another spasm seized him. She found him doubled up and breathless. He stopped, his eyes streaming, unable to ask her. She took his arm and led him into the kitchen. It was spick and span. The red gleam of the fire behind the range reminded him that the furnace would go out if he did not get well quickly enough to attend to it. As it was, the pipes were almost cold. He made a tremendous effort.

‘For the love of God, woman, spare me a thimble of whiskey.’

‘Sit down,’ she said, helping him. He looked about him and recognised the press it was usually kept in. He saw her opening it. When she came back she poured him a stiff measure. He took it slowly, coughing and spluttering over it at first, but becoming easier after a while, until at last he felt he could talk to her.

‘God reward you,’ he offered.

‘I’ll give you a cup of tea.’

‘No, no. The whiskey did the trick. It always does.’

‘The tea will cap it,’ she said.

She prepared it and with it he took some bread and butter. He felt warmer and better after it. Drowsy, too. He had slept very brokenly the night before.

‘I’ll go now and attend the furnace.’

‘You’re a man that shouldn’t be out at all,’ she warned him. Even now his face was a deadly colour. She wondered should she tell Father Giffley.

‘If Rashers stays out, the furnace is out too.’

‘What matter about the furnace.’

‘Am I to let it out and lose my job.’

‘You’re in no condition to be abroad.’

‘It’s only a little turn,’ Rashers said. ‘I’m right as rain now.’

He got up with difficulty and went to the door. It was a pity to have to leave the warm, dry air of the kitchen. It would have been good to curl up and sleep on its flagged floor. He had slept on less comfortable beds.

‘Wait now,’ she called to him.

She put the cork back in the bottle, which was still almost half full of whiskey, and gave it to him.

‘Put it under your coat,’ she warned him.

He looked at it doubtfully.

‘They’ll surely miss it.’

‘Divil the miss.’

‘You’re a good-hearted woman.’

‘I’ll not have your death on my conscience, and that will be the story if you don’t watch yourself.’

Rashers held up the bottle and measured it with his eye.

‘If I die it’ll be of free drink,’ he said. It was an effort. He did not feel in the mood to joke.

The rain had found its way under the broken door and down the first two steps of the boiler house. Beyond that it was dry and dark. He groped for the candle butt, lit it and opened the furnace gate. A thick white ash was all that remained of the coke-dressing, he had spread the previous night. He raked it gently, bringing the live coke to the surface. He threw a shovel full of fresh coke to the back of the furnace. The white ash, disturbed, burst upwards in a dense cloud and flowed into the furnace room. In the light of the candle, against the background darkness, countless white particles began to dance and jostle. Rashers breathed deeply as he lifted the shovel a second time. The dust caught him at the back of the throat and the muscles of his chest convulsed. He threw the spade aside, knelt suddenly on the coke and began another fight for air that seemed endless and doomed to defeat. But it passed. He lay down trembling. There was sweat on his face and under his clothes. Everything had withdrawn to a great distance. The candle flame was a luminous petal which shed no light at all. He remembered the whiskey and drank. The cork fell when he fumbled as he tried to replace it. He drank again, a long slug, for comfort this time, not for medicine. It felt better. With his eyes closed and lying still, it was possible to think a little. If it was Edward VII he would be surrounded by doctors. It did no good, in the heel of the hunt. Maybe a high-up like him wouldn’t chance a drop of whiskey. Champagne or a high-class foreign wine. That was their dish. Rashers slugged again at the bottle and burrowed deeper into the coke stack. Drowsiness crept over him, a murmur in his ears and in his limbs. He dozed while the furnace shared the misfortune of many another in St. Brigid’s and starved to death.

The church suffered. At afternoon devotions, during the recitation of the rosary, the cold and damp penetrated Father Giffley to the bone. On his way into the vestry he touched the pipes with his hand and confirmed his suspicions. In the house he summoned Father O’Connor.

‘Have we a boilerman?’

‘Of course.’

‘The heating system contradicts it.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The church is like an icebox.’

‘I’ll see what is wrong.’

‘You should have done that four or five hours ago.’

Father Giffley went to the press, groped in it and took out a bottle. He half filled a glass.

‘I’m petrified,’ he grumbled.

Father O’Connor, with sinking heart, saw him take it over to the fireside chair where he swallowed most of it with the first mouthful.

‘I’ll find out what has happened,’ he promised.

The courtyard was dark and rain was still falling. He turned up his collar. The image of Father Giffley raising the yellow liquid and swallowing remained vividly with him. It had been so long since that had happened. Was it about to start again: the whiskey after breakfast, the inflamed afternoon face, the sickly and perpetual odour of peppermints? There would come a time when Father Giffley’s weakness could no longer be ignored.

He reached the boiler house and pushed in the broken door. It was pitch dark. Stale coke fumes hung unpleasantly in the cold air. The sound of heavy breathing came from the darkness. It startled him. He called out.

‘Tierney.’

The breathing continued, its rhythm uninterrupted. He picked his way gingerly down the remaining steps, struck a match and found a stump of candle. Beside it the earlier one had guttered to death. Its grease dribbles clung to the ledge and spread in knuckled streams down the side of the wall.

‘Tierney,’ Father O’Connor called again.

He held the candle above the sleeping figure and bent down. The sight horrified him. Rashers’ mouth had fallen open. The teeth in it were yellow and rose crookedly from the narrow gums. The empty whiskey bottle was in his right hand. He had been incontinent in his sleep. Father O’Connor recoiled from the strong smell of urine. He prodded Rashers with his foot.

‘Tierney,’ he called.

He was tempted to kick at the prostrate horror. Was the whole of Ireland possessed by Drink; had it become an unwashed wretch on a slag-heap, grasping an empty bottle by the neck? What right had any creature to spurn God’s gifts of mind and health in this way, to put out God’s sun—quench His stars and obliterate the lovely face of His Creation. Father O’Connor felt fury blazing in the arteries of neck and temple.

‘Tierney!’ he roared.

Rashers opened his eyes and identified his visitor.

‘It’s yourself, Father.’

‘Get on your feet.’

‘All in good time, Father.’

Rashers spoke soothingly. It was all very well to say get on your feet. It was another thing to have complete confidence in their ability to obey.

‘The furnace is out.’

‘Bloody end to it,’ Rashers said. Then he recollected himself and apologised.

‘Saving your presence, Father.’

‘You’re a drunken disgrace,’ Father O’Connor exploded at him. Rashers looked puzzled. He thought. He became conscious of the empty bottle about which his fingers were still curled.

‘A drop for my chest,’ he said.

‘A good deal more than a drop. The furnace has been out all day. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘First it was contrary with me. Then I went up to mass. Then I got a little turn. The chest . . .’

‘Do you buy and consume a bottle of whiskey every time you have trouble with your chest?’

‘I didn’t buy it.’

‘You stole it, then.’

Rashers made an effort and raised himself on one elbow. In the candlelight, with the black beard merging into the background of piled coke, he was little more than a pair of eyes. They were suddenly focused and scornful.

‘That’s a strange conclusion for a man of your cloth to jump to.’

‘Who gave it to you?’

Rashers, with both elbows under him now, found his full voice and shouted his anger: ‘Ask my arse.’

‘How dare you use obscenity in my presence!’

‘I never asked for your presence,’ Rashers yelled. ‘So bad cess to you and to hell with you and God’s curse on you for labelling me a robber. Now get to hell out of here.’

He scrabbled at the coke about him and flung a fistful in Father O’Connor’s direction. Father O’Connor dodged backwards. Some pieces hit the skirts of his soutane and fell harmlessly to the floor. The attack astounded him. He stood wordlessly, the candle held above his head. They faced each other with hatred. Rashers made a final effort and found his feet. He pulled his clothes down about him. He continued to hold the empty bottle by the neck.

‘Tomorrow,’ Father O’Connor said, controlling his voice, ‘the clerk will have whatever wages is due to you. You’re dismissed.’

‘Sacked?’ Rashers cocked his head at an angle.

‘That is what I have just said.’

Rashers brushed past him and mounted the steps. He took them slowly, controlling his limbs.

‘Then good riddance,’ he said, when he had reached the top. He went out into the courtyard and on into the street, still holding the empty bottle by the neck.

Father O’Connor retired to his room. He was deeply upset. The poverty of St. Brigid’s parish was bad; its ingratitude was appalling. His efforts to help the poor had led to assault and bad blood. A useless, crippled old man he had picked off the streets had flung his kindness back in his face. His parish priest was likely to take the side of the boilerman. He had done so before. It seemed to give pleasure to Father Giffley to humiliate him. If that was to happen again, then the sooner they had it out and over with the better.

Father Giffley was not in the room on the ground floor—a bad sign. Had he retired to his own room to drink himself stupid? If so, that too would have to be faced. Father O’Connor climbed the stairs again. He knocked on the door.

‘Come in.’

The fire was piled high in the way that Father Giffley liked. It added its own light to that of the buzzing gas mantle. The bookcase in the corner gleamed orange and red where the wood and the glass reflected its glow. Father Giffley was seated in a deep armchair. A tumbler with whiskey stood near him.

‘Am I disturbing you, Father?’

‘Please close the door. I am just beginning to feel warm again.’

Father O’Connor did so.

‘That is what I came to see you about. I found the furnace completely out.’

‘Did you find the boilerman? That’s the essential thing.’

‘He was lying on a pile of coke—asleep.’

‘Asleep?’

Father O’Connor decided to call a spade a spade.

‘He was dead drunk.’

The other, about to raise the tumbler to his lips, replaced it. The eyes examined Father O’Connor closely, noting his agitation, interpreting it.

‘And where is he now?’

Father O’Connor steeled himself.

‘I dismissed him. That’s what I came to tell you.’

Father Giffley continued to regard him closely. He spoke very calmly.

‘And why do you come to me?’

‘On a previous occasion you reproached me for not having done so.’

‘It appears you didn’t on this occasion either.’

‘I acted on impulse. The furnace was out. The man was lying on the coke heap. He had been . . .’

It would be indelicate to refer to that—the smell of urine, the unwashed smell.

‘His language was obscene and he threw things at me.’

Father Giffley gave some moments of consideration to that. At last he said: ‘Do your respectable friends never drink?’

‘In moderation . . .’

‘Always?’

The emphasis on the word communicated his disbelief. He looked sadly at the tumbler in his hand.

‘If you found your parish priest drunk would you try to have him sacked?’

‘Please, Father . . .’

‘Why don’t you answer?’

‘There is no answer. You are complicating something that is quite simple. The boilerman was drunk. He neglected his duty. He . . .’

‘Complications? Is there one law for Kingstown and another for the clergy and another for the boilerman?’

Father O’Connor did not answer.

‘Well?’

It was no use answering. Any attempt of his would be twisted by the other to suit his purpose. His parish priest hated him. It was, he could only hope, part of the man’s mental sickness.

‘This morning I listened to you speaking about the Larkinites. You were quite wrong—as usual. The reformers have a better case than we have. They are trying to destroy this dung-heap. I wish I had the strength of will to help them.’

‘That is not the generally accepted view.’

‘No. Yet one day, when they have succeeded in spite of us, it will be.’

It was a surprising speech and Father O’Connor had nothing to say about it. He wondered what bearing it could have on the boilerman.

‘Have I done wrong in sacking the boilerman?’

‘You took that step without consulting me,’ Father Giffley said. ‘And now you ask me did you do wrong. Am I to take responsibility for your decisions? This time I leave the matter in your own hands. You feel you have been insulted. If you wish to punish, it is your sole responsibility.’

‘It was not a question of punishment.’

‘No?’

‘One has a right to expect decency and good behaviour.’

‘Quite so,’ Father Giffley agreed.

The words should have reassured, but instead they disturbed. What was the use of discussing decency and good behaviour with a man who was himself about to offend against both. Irritated by the whiskey, the swollen face, Father O’Connor snapped:

‘I never know what you mean.’

He stopped short, alarmed at the sound of his own voice. It was loud, it was almost contemptuous. Father Giffley turned fully about, fixing his eyes squarely on Father O’Connor.

‘You have that look again now,’ he said.

‘I spoke loudly. I am sorry.’

‘That look on your face. It comes quite often. I saw it earlier today. Shall I tell you when?’

Goaded beyond endurance by the tone, Father O’Connor said: ‘I am not here to be insulted.’

Father Giffley rose from his chair and left down his glass with a bang.

‘This morning,’ he continued, his hands clasped behind him, his head inclined pugnaciously towards Father O’Connor, ‘I watched you distributing holy communion. The old men, and the young men too, thronged to the altar rails—in this parish they always have on sodality Sunday. You were distributing holy communion. It had been raining. Nothing unusual in that, of course. It is never done raining in the parish of St. Brigid. You have probably had time to notice that—in between your visits to Kingstown. The rain makes them smell quite badly. And when they are packed together, row on row, that smell can be more than a little distressing.’

Father Giffley took his hands from behind his back and leaned his weight on the table.

‘You were faced with a line of assorted tongues, all thrust forward to receive the Body of our Lord from your hands. You kept as far off as possible from the assorted breaths they were exhaling at you. And in all my days I have never seen a priest’s face that wore such a look of loathing and disgust.’

‘It’s a lie,’ Father O’Connor shouted. The denial broke from him before he could attempt to control it. The sound of his voice reverberating through the room shocked him. He trembled as Father Giffley resumed his seat by the fire. Then, with a feeling of loneliness and despair which reduced him almost to tears, he added:

‘I can only assume that you have already had too much whiskey to drink. It will ruin you. If you do not respect yourself I cannot expect you to respect me.’

Father Giffley was unmoved. He folded his arms and gave his attention entirely to the fire. It burned clearly and brightly. In it were coloured scenes of ethereal beauty. In it were no dead born babies, no lice-infested heads, no worn-out creatures, no malformed bodies. Soul and imagination could wander down its galleries for ever, in peace, in contemplation without end.

He heard the door close. He did not associate it with Father O’Connor leaving. Already, it seemed to him, Father O’Connor had left a long time ago.

Rashers went back once more among the old women and the children who searched the dustbins. There was nothing much to be got elsewhere. A dock strike spread and involved the railway workers; there was a partial stoppage in the timber trade. Throughout the city, jobs closed, men picketed, homes went short of food and firing. Among themselves the poor had nothing to spare. At night Rashers played his tin whistle for the theatre queues. Everywhere the competition proved formidable. A man with a barrel-organ and a monkey was a frequent rival. Another pair, with fiddle and full-size harp, outdid him in both sound and spectacle. There was an unusual number of casuals, from broken-voiced ballad-singers to outright beggars wheedling for the price of a cup of tea and a night’s lodging.

Often enough he lost heart. His limp had grown worse, his chest constantly gave him trouble.

‘Why don’t you go round and apologise to Father O’Connor?’ Hennessy urged him more than once throughout the long winter.

‘Because Rashers Tierney isn’t that class of a man,’ he always answered.

‘After all—he’s a priest.’

‘If he is he shouldn’t want an apology.’

‘And what should he do?’

‘He should turn the other cheek.’

Hennessy, with a grunt of impatience, sat down beside him.

‘Ah—talk sense.’

‘Sense be damned.’

Finding him immovable, Hennessy offered a cigarette. They smoked and watched the children swinging about a lamp-post on the opposite pavement.

‘You’re a stubborn and cantankerous bloody oul oddity,’ Hennessy decided.

Rashers shrugged the rebuke away. His job was filled. Apologising would get him nowhere. Never again would he go next or near St. Brigid’s. Mass was available elsewhere; God and His Blessed Mother and St. Joseph and St. Anthony and anyone else he cared to address a prayer to would listen to him without asking Father O’Connor’s permission. That was one good thing about religion. No one owned it. No one could put a wall around it and lock the gate on you. If he was sorry for his sins God would smile and say, ‘Come on in, Rashers—I knew your knock.’ If he was not, all the Father O’Connors in the world could do nothing to put him back into favour.

‘I’ll creep in through a little hole or behind the little children,’ Rashers said aloud.

He screwed up his face defiantly.

Hennessy, wondering what he was wandering in his mind about, looked at him but said nothing. For once he was incurious, his thoughts returning to his own plight. Another of his temporary jobs had come to an end. There were too many idle men now to compete for what might be left. Like Rashers, he stood little chance in open competition. Unlike Rashers, his accomplishments did not include a command of the tin whistle. He sighed and said:

‘One of the chisellers is sick.’

‘Which of them?’

‘The second youngest. It’s some class of a bowel complaint. I’d like to get a bit of decent nourishment for her.’

‘The poor little morsel,’ Rashers said.

‘But with all the strikes, it’s hard to know where to turn to earn a crust.’

‘It always was,’ Rashers agreed, ‘in this glorified kip of a city.’

They both fell silent again.