Now a boy from the back of the room.
‘Every avenue leading to and in this plague-stricken town has a fever hospital having for its protecting roof the blue vault of heaven. Persons of all ages are dropping dead in each corner of the town, who are interred with much difficulty after rats have festered on their frames.’
A girl from the back of the Black Room.
‘A parish priest with five hundred out of three thousand dead in his congregation, most with no coffins. They were carried to the churchyard, some on lids and ladders, more in baskets, aye and scores of them thrown beside the nearest ditch, and there left to the mercy of the dogs which have nothing else to feed on.’
Another young man, wearing a white coat and flanked by two burly attendants, now made his way across the stage and up the stairs into the death chamber. ‘Medical staff,’ the invisible voice resumed its melancholy commentary, ‘made regular inspections of the Black Room.’ The white-coated figure knelt down and inspected two of the wretches. He shook his head slowly. The two attendants picked up the first body and brought her over to the edge where the planks were waiting. ‘It was necessary, to avoid infection, to remove the bodies of the dead as soon as possible.’ The corpse was rolled down the planks into the bath. The second one followed immediately afterwards. The white-coated young man and his colleagues left. A girl wearing an apron and carrying a sack approached the bath and began emptying large quantities of what looked like flour over the bodies. ‘The workhouse had no coffins,’ the invisible voice went on, ‘lime was thrown over the bodies as they were dumped in a pit outside the window of the Black Room and they were eventually buried in an unknown grave.’ The voice stopped for a moment and then resumed. ‘Over one million men, women and children died in Ireland in the famine.’
There was a pause for about five seconds. The tableau on stage remained absolutely still. The dead did not attempt to rise from the bathtub. Then there must have been some signal from James for the vicar rose to his feet.
‘Let us pray,’ he began. ‘Let us pray for the souls of all those who departed this life in that terrible famine. Let us pray for their descendants, those who came after, whose lives were so deeply affected by the tragedy that had devastated their families. Let us pray for all those in poverty or sickness or hunger in this unhappy world today.’ The vicar paused to let his congregation address their Maker.
‘Lighten our darkness, Oh Lord,’ he said, moving into the closing words of Evensong, ‘and defend us from all perils and dangers of this night. May the Lord bless you and keep you, may the Lord make the light of his countenance shine upon you and be gracious unto you and give you His peace, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.’
The Reverend Cooper Walker turned to the young people on stage. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘let there be light!’ As the curtains were pulled and the great shutters opened, he turned to Sylvia Butler. ‘I’ve always wanted to make that announcement,’ he said, ‘let there be light, never have, until today.’
Richard Butler raised his voice above the hubbub. ‘Interval time!’ he cried. ‘Punch! Cake! Jellies if you’re small! In the garden!’
On his way out Powerscourt bent down to pick up one of the famine scripts that had fallen on the floor. It was written in a very distinctive, rather ornate hand, and had the reader’s name at the top and ‘Good Luck, James’ at the bottom. He put it in his pocket. Outside he joined Lady Lucy and found Johnny Fitzgerald standing by himself with two glasses of punch, one in each hand.
‘I was holding this one for a chap,’ he explained, looking suspiciously at the drink, ‘but he seems to have disappeared. Ah well, duty calls.’ He began work on the glass in his left hand. ‘Hasn’t Young James a fine eye for the dramatic,’ he went on. ‘Quite moving it was, all those voices coming at you from all quarters. Maybe he’ll be a great impresario fellow like that chap Beerbohm Wood over in London.’
‘Tree,’ said Powerscourt.
‘Tree?’ said Johnny, peering at the glass in his left hand, now bereft of liquid. ‘Are you obsessed with trees now, Francis? Not content with bumping into them, you’re now referring to them at every opportunity.’
‘Tree,’ said Powerscourt, ‘the theatrical fellow, he’s called Tree, not Wood. Beerbohm Tree.’
‘Well, I knew it was something like wood anyway.’ Johnny had started on his other glass. ‘Will you look at this lot, Lady Lucy, it must be the memory of the famine. They’re eating everything in sight. You’d think they hadn’t been fed in weeks.’
Sure enough the Butler spread was disappearing fast. Four whole cakes had been polished off in minutes. Three great salvers of sandwiches had nothing left. Two of the smaller children had collected three bowls of jelly each and were scoffing them happily underneath the tables where the food was set out.
‘Johnny, Lady Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, ‘one of the things the Archbishop told me concerned the fires of hatred that still burn strong in the minds of some of the younger priests and Christian Brothers because of the famine. Do you think Young James feels the same thing? That famine stuff was pretty powerful. Do you suppose something dreadful happened to his family back then?’
‘I think it’s more likely he just has an eye for the dramatic, Francis,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘I have a cousin like that, always putting on amateur theatricals and rushing off to see the latest plays.’
Powerscourt resisted the temptation to say that any member of Lucy’s family involved in amateur dramatics would always be able to command a large cast.
‘I think I’ll just get hold of a glass of this punch before the second half,’ said Johnny, ambling off towards the drinks department. ‘Maybe I should get two in case that fellow comes back. You never know.’
‘Do you know what was in that bath tub, Francis?’ asked Lady Lucy. ‘Those little girls could have been hurt rolling down into it.’
‘No, they couldn’t, Lucy. Whole thing was filled with pillows. I looked at the time. Pillows everywhere.’
Lady Lucy tucked her arm into her husband’s as they climbed the stairs. ‘Let’s hope there’ll be some more songs and romantic poetry, Francis. Much nicer than the political speeches and all that.’
Some of Lady Lucy’s wishes were granted, and some were not, in Part Two of Young James’s entertainment. A lad of about ten with the voice of a choirboy gave a spirited rendering of ‘The Minstrel Boy’. A lively reading from a novel by George Moore followed. James himself was involved in the finale. Powerscourt noticed with interest that the candles were back again, for the young man came to the front of the stage, surrounded by three girls, all with lighted candles. James waited for complete silence and then he began.
‘When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once and of their shadows deep.’
The first girl looked at James, blew out her candle and left the stage. James was now looking at Lady Lucy.
‘How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.’
Powerscourt squeezed Lady Lucy’s hand. The second girl had now blown out her candle and she too departed. James’s eyes moved off to another female.
‘And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled