He put on his boards again and tested his bell. The birds rose from the chimney stack in fright. He was stiff from sitting. He put one foot carefully before him and then the other and after a few difficult steps walking became a simple enough matter. More or less. The bloody boards were a weight. Take up your cross was right. Here I come, Jesus, one front and back.
At doors in the unexpected sun the old and the cripples had been left out to air. He greeted each of them. A Grand Day, he shouted. Thanks be to God, they shouted back. Or gave no answer but smiled. Or made no response whatever, neither hearing nor seeing him nor anything else, habituated to separateness, aware only of being put out and taken in like clothes off a line with each change of weather. When I can no longer fend for myself, Rashers prayed, then God, let me die.
The thought stirred him to activity. His voice resounded in the street that had opened its hall doors to let in the sunshine.
‘Have yiz e’er a blanket to pawn or sell
E’er a table or e’er a chair
Best prices in town for pairs of ornamental pieces.’
He worked contentedly through the afternoon, until at half past six or thereabouts his bell was heard once again outside Mr. Silverwater’s shop. By that time he was weary. He wondered about his dog, which had been locked up all day. He wanted to get home to it, to make himself tea with water which Mrs. Bartley wouldn’t mind boiling for him, to take off the boots which were crucifying his feet. There were no customers at that late hour. The interior of the shop was dark after the light of the streets. Mr. Johnston looked up from a ledger, blinking at him.
‘Tierney,’ he said, ‘Mr. Silverwater wants to see you.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In the store at the back.’
Rashers, used to the place now, lifted the counter panel and let himself through. He groped his way down a dim passage. Mr. Silverwater was trying to make sense of the conglomeration which had built up as a result of the lock-out.
‘You wanted me,’ Rashers said.
Mr. Silverwater dragged his thoughts from the problem of his stock with some difficulty. He stared at Rashers.
‘I did, Tierney. Let me see. Yes. You can leave the boards and the bell here tonight.’
‘And what about the morning?’
‘You won’t need them. I’ve decided to stop this advertising.’
‘Are you not opening tomorrow?’ Rashers asked.
‘Our arrangement has come to an end,’ Mr. Silverwater said. He was still preoccupied.
‘Do you mean I’m sacked?’ Rashers asked. He was rooted to the ground.
‘You finish up tonight,’ Mr. Silverwater said, ‘Mr. Johnston will put away the bell somewhere. Give it to him on your way out.’
‘And my money—what about what’s due to me?’
‘Call at the end of the week for it,’ Mr. Silverwater said. ‘We’ll settle whatever you’re entitled to then.’
Rashers felt an ache inside him, as though something were eating at the wall of his stomach.
‘Could I not finish out the week?’ he asked.
‘Not another hour,’ Mr. Silverwater said to him. He waved at the junk which surrounded them.
‘Do you think I can afford to take any more of it. The half of it will never be redeemed and there’s no one I know who would buy it. It’s regular customers only from this out. I’m busy now. Call back on Saturday for your money.’
He turned his whole attention to his stock. Rashers tried to piece an appeal together. It was useless. The ache wouldn’t allow it. He stared foolishly at Mr. Silverwater’s back. He could think of nothing. In the end there was nothing to be done except to take off the boards and leave them against the wall. He went back through the passage and into the shop. Mr. Johnston was still engrossed in his ledger, staring hard at it in the poor light. Rashers put the bell on the counter beside him. He looked up at that but Rashers made no effort to talk to him. He opened the door of the shop and stepped out into the street. Dusk was settling over it and the pavement was giving back a little of the heat it had stored during the course of the beautiful, unseasonable day. Its ghost still haunted the sky. As Rashers limped his way slowly towards Chandlers Court, it faded away. The sick and the dying had been taken in again from the steps.
In the night time hatred kept Mrs. Hennessy awake. She heard her children whimpering with hunger and cried out to God to curse those who had stopped her husband from earning. By day, though it tormented her unceasingly, she kept it hidden away. She searched out small charities and showered blessings on every giver. Her mouth seemed to have no lips at all, her eyes were those of a bird of prey. She borrowed daily and sent the older children out to beg. When hope of borrowing was exhausted she went into remote neighbourhoods where people would not know her and begged herself, until a policeman terrified her by asking her name and address.
He made a great show of taking out his notebook and examining the point of his pencil.
‘Is your husband on strike?’
‘No, sir. He’s a decent man and they stopped him from going to his work.’
‘Who stopped him?’
‘A bad neighbour, sir.’
‘What name?’
She hesitated. The notebook and the helmet terrified her.
‘A man named Fitzpatrick—and a butty.’
‘Where does Fitzpatrick live?’
‘In the same house as myself, sir.’
‘I see.’ She watched as the policeman wrote the information into his book. He closed it with a snap.
‘Be about your business now,’ he said to her. She hurried away. It was some time before it occurred to her that she had given information about her neighbours to the police. The thought brought her to a stop.
The evening sky drizzled rain, leaving fog patches in laneways. She was more terrified now and still without food. The Protestant charities she could go to would want her to turn away from her religion and deny the Blessed Virgin. That would bring worse luck still. Temptation began to trail her through street after street. At the gates of St. Brigid’s she stopped again. She peered through the rain at the church. If her own clergy refused her, there would be nothing else left.
The door of the vestry was opened to her by Timothy Keever.
‘Is Father O’Connor within?’
‘What name?’ he asked.
‘Mrs. Hennessy.’
He thought he recognised her.
‘From where?’
‘Chandlers Court.’
It was a street that was barred to him for ever.
‘And your business?’
‘I want a little help. I have a houseful of hungry children and my husband was stopped from working by a gang from the union. Don’t turn me away empty-handed.’
‘Who stopped him?’
‘Bob Fitzpatrick and Pat Bannister.’
She had informed again. It was too late now to turn back. She heard Keever saying:
‘I may be able to help you. Come inside.’
In the waiting room set apart for the altar boys he listened attentively to what she had to say.
‘Your husband is not in any union?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And the neighbours are against him?’
‘The most of them is, sir.’
‘Have you heard any talk among them about a scheme for sending children to England?’
‘There was a meeting about that only yesterday.’
‘Where?’
‘In Liberty Hall.’
‘Father O’Connor has been hearing rumours of this for some time past,’ Keever said, ‘and if it’s true he’ll want to know everything about it.’