‘Holy Jaysus,’ Ballcock said. Keever, reaching up to steady the lamp which was swaying from the blow, nearly toppled the statue nearest to him. Ballcock hammered furiously on the glass.
‘You clumsy bastard,’ he shouted. Keever looked out, puzzled.
‘Deaf as well as everything else,’ Ballcock decided. He turned his back to the glass and lit a cigarette.
‘That’s what you get for employing ex-scabs,’ Pat said.
‘No choice of mine,’ Ballcock said. ‘Clerical influence—that’s what has Keever in his job. Here, have a cigarette.’
‘Thanks,’ Pat said.
‘I suppose you haven’t been doing the horses lately?’
‘They didn’t encourage it,’ Pat said. ‘What’s any good today?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s good,’ Ballcock confided. ‘Packleader at Leicester in the two-forty. It’s information which I got from a priest that’s a customer—a most Reverend punter.’
‘I haven’t done a horse for months,’ Pat told him.
‘Nor nothing else neither,’ Ballcock said, ‘not if gaol’s the same as in my day.’
‘That’s right,’ Pat agreed. ‘Nothing else.’
‘Well—be true to the Church and back Packleader. Follow your clergy. Have you a job?’
‘I don’t know. I’m on my way down to Nolan & Keyes to find out.’
‘If you don’t pick it up right away,’ Ballcock offered, ‘drop back to me. I have three days casual I can give you.’
‘I’d be glad of it.’
‘Welcome,’ Ballcock said. He flung away his cigarette butt and looked again at the window. Keever was doing his best to rearrange the display.
‘Excuse me,’ Ballcock said, ‘I have a few things to discuss with mahogany skull there.’
He strode in and called Keever from the window. They both disappeared into the back of the shop.
It was a cold, blustering day, with a sky that was too bright and too wide after his months in prison and streets that were noisy and suddenly unfamiliar. The shop window was better. It was neatly framed and, now that Keever had left, comfortingly devoid of speech and movement. St. Patrick, the National Apostle, occupied a central position. In green robes and bishop’s mitre he gazed past Pat at the streets of the capital city. Snakes at his feet cowered in petrified terror of his golden crozier and in his right hand a stone shamrock symbolised the mystery of the Unity and the Most Holy Trinity. St. Patrick’s Day, Pat calculated, was almost exactly a week away. He was glad to make the calculation. It brought him into touch with everyday life for the first time since his release.
There was a second fact to be absorbed. Tonight, all going well, he would sleep in the House of the Boer War Heroes. Lily’s letter to him had said so. While he finished his cigarette he took it from his pocket and read it again:
. . . you will have nowhere of your own to stay after all those months will you but don’t worry the landlady here is away I have the house all to myself and I can put you up for the night which will give you a bit of a chance to look around for somewhere but don’t come until after seven o’clock so as I will be home from my work. Everything with me is all right hospital was a great rest and I have good news for you Pat which is why I want you to come as well but watch out for the neighbours if they as much as well you know what I mean be careful for God’s sake or we are both sunk . . .
At seven o’clock, about ten hours away, he would see her and be staying with her again. The thought made him restless. He returned the letter to his pocket and began to walk. There was his job to be enquired about. There was this suddenly unfamiliar city to be considered. They were not the streets of a few months before. No collection boxes rattled, no pickets were on patrol, the trams ran without police protection. It seemed a tame end to eight months of struggle. He wondered how his mates on the job would feel about it. He quickened his pace.
Gulls circling above the river gladdened his heart. That and the strong smell of the sea. His spirit now welcomed all sounds, those of crane and ship, dray wheel and bogey. The width of the sky exalted him. He stopped and was overjoyed at the sight of the unloading gangs along the wharf. To men he did not know he shouted.
‘Hi, mate—more power.’
They grinned and waved back. There was no defeat in the faces he passed. They sweated familiarly, were dust-coated, had ready answers. They had spirits that recovered easily from adversity. A few weeks’ work and everything was as it had always been. More or less. There was little to be lost that was worth pining about.
The gates of Nolan & Keyes stood wide open, a sunlit space where the air smelled of tar from the nearby gasworks. It was noonday now. The carters were either off on their rounds or gathered in the shed near the stables having their midday food.
Suddenly unsure, he stepped into the gateman’s hut and found the yard foreman drinking tea and smoking his pipe by the gas fire. The foreman looked around, then rose slowly.
‘Pat Bannister,’ he said. To Pat’s surprise he held out his hand.
‘Back again,’ Pat said, taking it.
‘When did you get out?’
‘This morning.’
‘You should have let me know.’
That was hopeful.
‘They weren’t greatly in favour of letter-writing,’ Pat said.
‘You’re looking for a start?’
‘I came down here first thing.’
‘Certainly,’ the foreman said.
‘When?’
‘Right now, if you like. There’s a half-day left.’
‘That’d suit fine.’
‘Quinn has your horse I’m afraid,’ the foreman said, ‘but Mulcahy’s out sick so you could yoke up his. Come on the scales with the rest of them after the meal break and I’ll have a half-day made up for you.’
Pat hesitated. He wondered about the form, but there seemed to be nothing else.
‘No formalities?’
‘Not here,’ the foreman said. ‘Nolan & Keyes and Doggett’s want to get on with the bloody work. But don’t go shouting out loud about Larkin. Give it a rest for a while.’
‘Are the lads below?’
‘They are,’ the foreman said, ‘you’ll find them chewing the rag—as usual.’
‘I’ll be glad to do the half-day,’ Pat confessed.
‘It’ll be waiting for you,’ the foreman assured him.
He thanked him and made his way across the yard. He was hungry and the light but pungent smell of tar aggravated it. He strode out and began to sing. It was a great joy to be able to walk freely. He knocked ceremoniously on the door of the men’s shed and then pushed it inwards.
All the faces turned around. There was Joe and Harmless, Quinn and Mick. There were three or four others as well. Mick jumped to his feet and came forward.
‘Pat,’ he shouted and threw his arms about him.
The others stood up.
‘Well—I declare to God,’ Joe said as Mick dragged him over to the fire, ‘they let him out.’
‘And bloody nearly time,’ Quinn told them.
Harmless expressed agreement.
‘Just so,’ he said.
They shook hands with him in turn. Then they all settled down to fire questions at him.
‘When are you starting?’
‘What was it like?’
‘Did you do the full stretch?’
‘How do you feel after it?’
Pat looked at the cans of tea and the food.
‘I’ll tell you how I feel,’ Pat said, ‘I’m starving with hunger.’
They plied him with sandwiches. Harmless made a special show.
‘Take this one,’ he said, ‘there’s two nice rashers in it.’