The music was hypnotic but not inspiring. Ralph Bradshaw, he suspected, was in a torpor; Mrs. Bradshaw less so. He secretly appraised the comfort of the room. Soon he would have to surrender to fashion and science by abandoning his beloved paraffin lamps. He admired their soft light, the patterns of their beaded shades on floor and walls, their luminiferous elegance. But Progress had outmoded them. Soon they must go.
A gust of wind carried the sound of an ambulance bell into the room. It lifted to a peak, compelling their momentary attention, then the wind bore it away again and they returned to the music, the Bradshaws automatically, Yearling with an effort of will and only nominally.
He was so restless. His trip to London had been no help at all, except for the relief of stepping off the mailboat again at Kingstown Harbour. Should he have married? Not as things had happened. Now youth had gone; manhood almost. And the old order he had been expensively brought up in was being bitterly assailed. It too would go. In London a great meeting of locked-out dockers had gathered about the platform of Ben Tillett and chanted over and over again in thunderous chorus: ‘O God, strike Lord Davenport dead.’ In Dublin Larkin flung his terrible phrase at the employers. ‘You’ll crucify Christ no longer in this town.’ The streets were shaking with the sound of his voice, the burden bearers were straightening their backs. They were multitude. There would be no escape from them. In Moore Street he had watched the ragged urchins crawling beneath the barrows of the vendors in search of rotten fruit.
The music ended. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw said it was very nice. Father O’Connor apologised for the inadequacy of his technique. The music of Mozart was always more difficult than it looked. Yearling said the performance had been very accomplished and asked if anyone had noticed a draught. Mrs. Bradshaw and Father O’Connor assured him they had not. Bradshaw said he thought he had felt something.
‘I think the window-frame had become warped,’ Yearling said. ‘It seems to happen every summer.’
They both went over to examine it.
‘It’s the sun,’ Bradshaw pronounced. ‘I have the same problem myself. And there isn’t a competent carpenter in the country.’
‘The windows opening on the garden give constant trouble,’ Mrs. Bradshaw supplied.
‘That’s what I said,’ Bradshaw told her impatiently. With the shortening of the days he always went over them, carefully sealing them with sticky paper which never failed to become unstuck again after a couple of weeks.
Father O’Connor had vacated the piano stool.
‘Someone else,’ he suggested. His tone was dispirited. His own performance had disappointed him. Sensing this, Yearling became jocular and went to the piano.
‘There’s a new music-hall song in London,’ he announced, ‘which amused me. It goes like this.’
He was not a pianist but he could vamp a bass to a melody in the right hand. He did so now, discordantly at times but with infectious enjoyment, half turning to the company as he sang to them:
‘Joshua, gosh you are
Sweeter than lemon squash you are.’
His imitation of a music-hall artiste made even Bradshaw smile. The atmosphere became more alive. When he had finished they applauded and he said:
‘There were quite a few new songs. “Who were you with last night?” “Hold your hand out, you naughty boy.” “Hitchy Koo.” “It’s a long way to Tipperary.” I went a lot to music-hall.’
‘Can you remember any of the others?’ Mrs. Bradshaw prompted. But her husband, alarmed at some of the titles, cut in quickly.
‘What else did you do?’
‘I went to gape at some suffragettes who had chained themselves to railings. They’re burning empty houses now and setting fire to letter boxes.’
‘Disgraceful,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.
‘And everybody I met expects a civil war in Ireland.’
‘Because of the Home Rule Bill?’ Father O’Connor asked.
‘Carson,’ Bradshaw supplied grimly. ‘He won’t give up the North.’
‘Tory hostesses are refusing to entertain members of the Government,’ Yearling continued. ‘And in the House someone flung his copy of Standing Orders at Winston Churchill’s head.’
Another ambulance bell rang furiously outside, rising and fading as the wind caught it and carried it away. The conversation stopped.
‘That’s strange,’ Yearling said eventually. ‘I thought I heard one earlier—while Father O’Connor was playing.’
‘I heard it too,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.
‘Could it be a fire?’ Father O’Connor wondered.
‘I would hope not,’ Bradshaw said, ‘not in this wind.’
‘Perhaps we should look,’ Yearling suggested.
He and Bradshaw went to the hall door. They had to hold it against the wind as they opened it. Outside it was dark. Trees in the garden tossed wildly. They searched the sky. When they returned they could report nothing unusual.
‘I’ve been wondering if it could be a baton charge,’ Father O’Connor said.
‘In Kingstown?’ Mrs. Bradshaw exclaimed, horrified.
‘Kingstown has its blackguards too,’ her husband said, ‘make no mistake about it.’ He looked very grim. Father O’Connor agreed with him.
‘Violence is everywhere,’ he said, raising his hands a moment to deplore it.
‘As Father O’Connor has good reason to know,’ Bradshaw reminded the company.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said—reminded.
‘You are quite recovered?’ Yearling asked.
‘Quite recovered.’ Father O’Connor’s tone acknowledged their solicitude, begged them modestly not to be reminded.
‘We live in terrible times,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. The ambulance bells, the gusting wind, filled her with foreboding. Outside the cosy circle of lamplight lay all the uncertainty and hardship of the world.
‘I went shopping in town last week,’ she told them. ‘It was terrifying. There were little children everywhere and they were begging for pennies.’
Her husband regarded her sternly.
‘I hope you kept your purse closed,’ he said. She did not reply, but looked hopefully at Father O’Connor. He wore a sad look.
‘The children are hungry,’ Yearling said.
‘They are hungry because they are on strike,’ Bradshaw insisted.
‘The children are not on strike,’ Yearling challenged.
‘Their fathers are,’ Bradshaw said.
Yearling in turn looked enquiringly at Father O’Connor.
‘What has religion to say to that?’ he asked. He was smiling and conversational in manner, but his eyes were cold. Father O’Connor became uncomfortable.
‘We must all have compassion for those who are hungry,’ he said at last, ‘but this is not by any means a simple matter. It is the duty of the parents to feed their children. If through misfortune they are unable to do so, then it is our obligation in charity to help them. But in the present instance their hunger is not due to misfortune. It is the result of a deliberate decision not to work. If we help them we are doing at least two things that are unjust; we are encouraging them to defy their employers and we are prolonging a most distressing situation.’
Bradshaw looked approvingly at Father O’Connor and then turned to Yearling.
‘I think that answers you very adequately,’ he said.
‘There is a third objection, to my mind the most important.’
Father O’Connor continued. ‘If Larkin and his colleagues win their fight it will be a victory for socialism. And socialism, as a very eminent Jesuit has clearly shown, is the worst enemy of the working man. It uproots his confidence in hierarchical order. It preaches discontent. It makes him covetous of the property of his social superiors, and impatient with the trials and obligations of his own station in life. If it does not destroy altogether his belief in God’s Fatherhood, it certainly cuts him off from the graces and spiritual fruits which are the rewards of poverty cheerfully borne and which flow from humble resignation to God’s Will.’