‘I heard about it from my own people,’ Mary said.
‘And those that tried to raise the people out of poverty were hanged or sent off in chains to Australia.’
Mary looked at the drawing on the mantelpiece, Miss Gilchrist’s Fenian; the handsome young rebel who had sheltered in her father’s house when she was a young girl. Miss Gilchrist followed her eyes.
‘That was one of them,’ she said gently, ‘the flower of them all.’
It occurred to Mary that Miss Gilchrist may have loved him. Had she watched him slip out into the dark one night, watched the bonfires on the hills, heard of the miserable failure of yet another rebellion?
‘Stick to service,’ Miss Gilchrist repeated. ‘In this country the ones that don’t fight are not worth your attention and the ones that do bring nothing but heartbreak.’
‘You should go to bed now,’ Mary prompted. ‘The rest will do you all the good in the world.’
Miss Gilchrist handed her the glass and rose with difficulty. ‘That’s what I’ll do,’ Miss Gilchrist agreed.
Mary went to sleep with the sound of foghorns still vibrating at intervals through the room. It was past midnight. Outside the fog spread and deepened, curling around the well-kept houses of Kingstown, creeping along the deserted roads of Blackrock and Booterstown, stealing along the quays and the crowded slums of the city where rooms became damper and more evil-smelling and the great tide of destitute humanity settled down to the familiar joys and miseries of its lot; in the stink of terrible houses quarrelling, loving, sinning, sleeping, cohabiting, praying and dying. The fog rolled over all with ever-shifting movements, so that the city lay submerged and paralysed and the foghorns had it all to themselves. They sang all night to the great and the little, telling them life was vanity and Death the only certainty.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mary had told Mrs. Bradshaw she had an aunt in the city for one reason only. There was no other way in which she could be free to visit Fitz. As a servant in training she was practically the property of the Bradshaws, dependent on their kindness for every occasional release from duty. She had no fixed day off and no agreed arrangement of work. To her parents, as to society, the condition was customary and therefore beyond questioning. She hated the deceit which, in the face of Mrs. Bradshaw’s gentleness and trust, made her feel unworthy. Yet what was she to do? She was one of a class without privilege and like most of the others she had found her own means to filch a little freedom from time to time. When it was discovered, as it had to be, she suffered in a way which puzzled and terrified her.
Mrs. Bradshaw suffered too. She felt that Mary had justified Mr. Bradshaw’s frequent criticisms of her indulgence.
‘This is what comes of sentiment when dealing with servants,’ he said. ‘How many times have I spoken to you about it?’
‘It’s a great disappointment,’ was all she could offer in defence.
The lie had been discovered through her innocent reference to the visits in her letter to Mary’s father. His reply that there was no relative in Dublin and his anxiety to know what exactly could be going on made Mrs. Bradshaw regret her mention of the matter. She was fond of Mary. She felt there could be nothing seriously wrong.
‘It was terribly wicked of you,’ she said, ‘your father is so upset. I’m quite certain he thinks we have been lax.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ Mary offered. There was nothing else she could say.
‘And what necessity was there for it?’ Mrs. Bradshaw asked. ‘I never refused you permission to go out.’
Mary remained silent. She could not have asked permission week after week to see Fitz. People refused to trust young servants with young men. It was a part of their thinking to expect the worst. So she would have had to tell lies anyhow. There was no way out. Mrs. Bradshaw, in the absence of a reply, asked the question which her world considered unavoidable in such situations.
‘Have you been meeting any people? . . . I mean people of the opposite sex?’
Mary flushed at the implication which, however delicately Mrs. Bradshaw strove to push it into the background, remained in the question itself. She determined on this occasion not to lie. It was better to be punished than to go on with the deceit.
‘I’ve been meeting a young man . . . the same young man,’ Mary said.
The next question framed itself automatically, but Mrs. Bradshaw decided against asking it. She saw that Mary was suffering. Pity was always stronger in Mrs. Bradshaw than anger or anxiety.
Mary, who understood the hesitation, said: ‘There’s been nothing wrong between us.’ She was glad that the lies had ended.
‘I believe you,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.
But Mr. Bradshaw was not so easily satisfied. His mind was quite made up and his conversation on the matter was punctuated by frequent raising and lowering of his perpetual newspaper.
‘She must go,’ he insisted.
‘The poor girl has done nothing wrong.’
‘We have only her word for it.’
‘I believe her.’
The newspaper was lowered.
‘You also believed her about this ridiculous aunt.’
Mrs. Bradshaw had no reply. She changed her voice and her tactics.
‘It seems such a pity to dismiss her.’
‘I fail to see why.’
‘I was thinking of the girl herself. We can’t give her a clear reference and without that she’ll find it impossible to get another position.’
‘She should have thought of that before she picked up with some young blackguard.’
‘They don’t have very much freedom. I’m sure it was all quite innocent.’
‘Innocent,’ Mr. Bradshaw repeated, bringing his newspaper down on his knees with a loud noise. ‘You mustn’t think these young girls are like yourself. They breed like rabbits. My God, woman, do you want her having babies all over the place?’
Mrs. Bradshaw changed colour. He noticed. Mistaking the reason, he apologised.
‘Forgive me if I sound crude, but we must face facts.’
It was not the crudeness which had upset Mrs. Bradshaw. In a small, dry voice she said: ‘I really don’t think it would arise.’
‘While there are hundreds of strong, willing and reliable girls to choose from, am I to sit by and see you saddled with an impressionable trollop. We pay for trustworthiness, my dear. We must make sure that we get it.’
Mrs. Bradshaw said, quietly: ‘I liked her. She suited me.’
‘You are being sentimental again. It is a constant fault of yours.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ Mrs. Bradshaw admitted. ‘I don’t think it so wrong to want to forgive.’
‘Nonsense. She goes back to her parents. A servant is not like an ordinary employee. One has moral responsibilities in the case of a servant.’
But Mary’s departure was delayed by the illness of Miss Gilchrist. The old woman’s collapse was gradual. In the course of the Christmas cleaning Mary helped her to shift the heavy furniture and noted the toll it took of her strength. She refused to rest on the grounds that the work had to be done. One day when they had moved the sideboard near the piano they discovered Father O’Connor’s beads, an amber and silver rosary in a worn purse. Miss Gilchrist put them in her apron pocket, saying she would return them personally later. Father O’Connor had become a favourite of hers and she recognised his property at once. She regarded him as something of a saint and never missed going to him for her monthly confession.
Less than an hour later she collapsed. Mary shouted for Mrs. Bradshaw and together they managed to take her to her room. They got her to bed. Mary lit the lamp and drew the curtains, cutting out the gloom of the December evening. The pallor of Miss Gilchrist’s face and her heavy breathing frightened her. They stayed watching her for a while until Mrs. Bradshaw said: ‘I think it would be as well to go for the doctor.’