Father O’Connor was now very grave and looked unhappy.
‘For these reasons,’ he concluded, speaking directly to Mrs. Bradshaw, ‘and I know how cold and even cruel it must all sound to a nature that is tender and maternal, we must harden our hearts.’
Her husband set his mouth and nodded approvingly. She lowered her eyes.
‘I see,’ Yearling said quietly.
He had read Father O’Connor’s arguments in newspaper reports and leaders on countless occasions since the lock-out had begun. He probably preached that way too. Now they had an extraordinary effect on him. He found his sympathy to be completely on Larkin’s side. The discovery filled him with good humour. In future he would help them whenever he could. He would not be the only one of his class to do so. George Bernard Shaw had spoken for them. George Russell, the mad mystic, had written a scathing letter against the employers. William Orpen, the painter, and several highly respectable intellectuals were denouncing William Martin Murphy and his policy of starvation.
He offered drinks to his guests and then said:
‘Now, Mrs. Bradshaw, ma’am—something from yourself first—and then both of us will oblige.’
She smiled and went to the piano. His ’cello lay in the corner with new music he had bought in London in readiness beside it. It included a selection from Il Trovatore, arranged for ’cello and piano, which he looked forward to trying with her. As though she had guessed his thought, she said:
‘I know you’re just dying to try your new purchases.’
But he shook his head.
‘Later,’ he said.
She began a selection for piano from The Merry Widow. She had only started when a servant entered. After a moment of uncertainty he crossed and whispered in Yearling’s ear.
‘There is a sergeant of police at the door, sir—he says he must see you at once.’
Yearling nodded. He signalled to the others to excuse him and left quietly as Mrs. Bradshaw continued to play. In the hall a policeman whom he knew quite well saluted him.
‘We’ve been searching everywhere for Mr. Bradshaw, sir. I understand he may be here.’
‘Something has happened?’ Yearling asked. Then he said: ‘Step in here a moment.’
He opened the door to a waiting room and turned up the flame of its low-burning lamp.
‘Is it a death?’ he asked, when he had finished his business with the lamp.
The sergeant removed his helmet to wipe his forehead.
‘It’s them houses he owns down near the harbour,’ he said.
‘A fire?’
‘No—not a fire, sir. We enquired at his house and were told he was here. Two of them collapsed about an hour ago. We don’t know how many of the poor creatures is dead.’
As he spoke another ambulance bell beat violently above the roar of the wind and receded. From the room Yearling had left The Merry Widow waltz tinkled remotely. Yearling sat down for a moment to consider the news. Then he said:
‘He is below with his wife. We mustn’t shock her more than is necessary. If you give me just a moment I’ll send one of the servants to fetch him here to us.’
‘That would be best,’ the sergeant said.
He waited while Yearling composed himself. He saw him rise and go to a tasselled rope woven of red and yellow threads. He saw him pull it.
They left Mrs. Bradshaw home and then went to the harbour side. Bradshaw was unable to say how many inhabitants the two houses had held, but his agent reckoned between forty and fifty. The death roll was seven when they arrived; within twenty minutes it had risen to nine.
‘Was there no warning?’ Yearling asked the sergeant.
‘It seems there was,’ the sergeant said. ‘A man in the first house saw the wallpaper suddenly tearing across. He rushed around knocking at doors and warning people. They left as fast as they could.’
Rescue workers were everywhere among the pile of rubble. Above them, in the light of the acetylene lamps, Yearling saw the skeletons of the two houses, their rooms and stairways laid naked by the collapse of the wall. Twisted beams and broken floors and masonry hung at dangerous angles. From time to time pieces of brick and wood were wrenched loose by the wind and raised a cloud of dust as they fell. Among the ambulances and fire brigade engines were vans from the Gas Company and the Waterworks. Firemen had rigged the hoses in readiness against an outbreak.
‘But not fast enough, it seems,’ Yearling said, when two more bodies were released from the debris.
‘Old people,’ the sergeant said, ‘or a mother trying to save her children.’
Father O’Connor had gone in among the injured. Two other clergymen were already busy. They said to him:
‘The dead have been attended to.’ He went down the line to a young woman whose dark hair was matted with blood. He gave her absolution. But she was barely conscious and kept saying over and over again: ‘The children . . . the children.’ As the rescuers worked, a guard with each party kept watch for signs of a further collapse. Bradshaw shuddered and touched Yearling’s arm.
‘They were passed as safe only a month ago. I have the inspector’s letter.’
‘Of course,’ Yearling said. Then he said: ‘You should go home.’
‘How can I leave?’
‘There’s nothing further you can do. When they want you they’ll call on you.’
They were rejoined by Father O’Connor.
‘I’m telling Ralph he should go home.’
‘Of course,’ Father O’Connor agreed. ‘Mrs. Bradshaw will need you.’
‘It’s the railway being so close,’ Bradshaw said. ‘I’ve written several times to them. The vibration affected the foundations.’
They brought him home. Yearling insisted on driving Father O’Connor back to town.
‘Do you think it was the railway?’ Father O’Connor asked.
‘It was neglect and old age,’ Yearling said grimly.
‘But they were passed as safe.’
‘They were condemned long ago—and then reprieved because Ralph knew the right people.’
‘I refuse to believe it,’ Father O’Connor said. He thought of the young woman who had been calling without cease for her children. Would they be found?
‘If there’s an investigation and the truth comes out,’ Yearling said, ‘Bradshaw and certain other gentlemen will be in trouble.’
Father O’Connor said nothing, his mind still occupied with the badly injured woman. He had ministered to her impulsively, without his usual horror of suffering. Pity and compassion and his priestly office had filled his thoughts. For the first time in his life the sight of blood had not frightened him.
The papers said:
‘Appalling Disaster
Tenements Collapse
Families Buried in Debris
Several Killed and Injured
Ruins in Flames’
The fire, Yearling gathered, had broken out after midnight when a tunnel made by the rescuers let air into the smouldering ruins, but the fire brigade kept it under control. A boy of seventeen, Eugene Salmon, who had rescued several children, was killed himself while trying to carry his little sister to safety. A reporter of Freeman’s Journal wrote: ‘The two houses numbered 66 and 67 were owned by Mr. Ralph Bradshaw who is also the owner of extensive property elsewhere in the city. His agent, Mr. H. Nichols, informed me yesterday that about two months ago, an official inspection of house No. 66 had been made and he had been directed to carry out certain repairs. This he had done and he states that the improvements were effected to the satisfaction of the inspector.’