‘I hated you being in gaol,’ she said, ‘all those criminals.’
‘There didn’t seem to be any criminals,’ Pat told her. ‘From the account of themselves they gave to me, every one of them was innocent. So far as I could find out, the only one guilty of the crime he was locked up for was myself.’
‘In that case it’s just as well they let you out,’ Lily decided, ‘you might have corrupted the rest.’
‘It used to worry me,’ Pat admitted.
‘And you have your job back?’
‘Started right away.’
‘I’m glad.’ She came over and sat beside him.
‘Pat—you must take it easy from now on. No more fighting and getting into trouble. Or heavy drinking.’
‘I’m not a heavy drinker,’ he objected, ‘you need money for that game.’
‘You seem to manage—somehow,’ she told him.
‘Are you going to nag?’
‘Listen to him,’ she begged, addressing Queen Victoria. But she relented and said, gently:
‘I thought you didn’t look well when you called. Gaol was no cakewalk, was it?’
‘It’s nicer to be out,’ Pat admitted.
‘It’s nicer for me too,’ she said softly. The tenderness that had been denied for so long overwhelmed him. He took her in his arms and she yielded warmly to him. His heart quickened with happiness.
After some minutes she moved a little away from him and said:
‘You didn’t ask me about my good news.’
‘I thought I’d let you come to that in your own good time,’ he said. He was a little bit apprehensive, wondering if she had got a job which would take her away, or if she had met somebody who meant more to her. He was not certain that he wanted to hear.
‘It’s about that thing which used to worry me.’
‘What thing?’
‘Oh, God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do I have to use the deaf-and-dumb alphabet?’
He knew then what she meant. It had become so much a part of their knowledge of each other that he had not considered it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘When I was in hospital there was this nun. She was very kind and I think she took a fancy to me. Anyway I screwed up the nerve to mention it to her and she insisted on me having all sorts of examinations.’
He waited. It was a subject he had learned not to discuss.
‘Pat,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing at all wrong with me. I’ve got a clean bill.’
He reached out and took her hand. But he knew it was better not to say anything. He was never sure on this score.
She said: ‘So—if you still want to marry me—everything seems to be all right.’
‘Lily,’ he said.
She laughed and came close to him.
‘I was a bit of a fool in those days, wasn’t I?’ she said. ‘I was going to be smart and make easy money. That’s what I thought. A bloody little fool. It’s just as well I got a fright that knocked a bit of sense into me.’
‘It’s a long time ago, Lily. I wouldn’t go on thinking about it.’
‘I suppose we’re both fools. That means we ought to suit each other.’
‘Down to the ground,’ Pat agreed.
‘Well—are you going to ask me?’
‘Ask you what?’
She appealed again to Queen Victoria.
‘Listen to him,’ she begged.
He realised what she meant and made amends.
‘Will you—Lily?’
‘Yes,’ she answered.
He looked in his turn at Queen Victoria and a thought struck him.
‘Do you want to ask her permission?’
‘I don’t recognise royalty any longer,’ Lily decided.
‘A Sinn Feiner?’
‘No,’ Lily said, ‘Workers’ Republic.’
‘Grand,’ Pat pronounced, ‘we’ll get on together like Siamese twins.’
He kissed her and they became serious again. There were no more barriers. Love and tenderness engulfed both of them. Rashers moaned in the darkness. The fire had burnt itself out. The streak of light had left the ceiling. A chill dampness filled the basement and settled on his beard and on the rags that covered him. The burning agony in his bowels was turning his insides into vapour and water. He tried to raise himself but found that in one arm and one leg there was no sensation at all. They hung with an immovable weight, pinning him down.
‘Sweet Christ,’ he repeated over and over again. ‘Sweet Christ.’
He listened for sounds that would tell how near it might be to morning. There were none. The house above him slept, the streets outside were empty. He felt his bowels loosening and ground his teeth as he fought to control them. If he fouled what he was wearing there was nothing he could change into. He made another desperate effort to get to his feet. It was useless. He had no power over his limbs. He was held by the weight of his ailing body.
‘Rusty,’ he called, the dog came to him.
‘Lie down,’ he said, ‘lie down.’
In the dense darkness he could see nothing, but he felt the weight of the dog as it settled against his side. For a moment there was comfort in that. He could hear it breathing in the darkness and feel the warmth of its body. The world was not entirely empty. Then the pains became worse. He felt his bowels melting and loosening in spite of his will. A burning hot liquid trickled incontinently. He made an agonising effort to stop it but failed. With a sudden rush his bowels voided their contents of foulness and gas. He felt his buttocks sticky and saturated. But he still could not move. He had an interval of complete numbness, without pain or thought of any kind. Then the slow agony inside him flickered into life and began its mounting torture all over again.
In the morning Pat slipped out of the house when Lily signalled to him that the way was clear. At the loading yard he found he had his own horse back again. He was pleased when it greeted him with signs of excitement. His first stop was at a bookmaker’s office, where he found his Double had turned up, Packleader winning by four lengths from Romer and Enoch at seven to two—Revolution by a length from Duke of Leinster and Prince Danzel at nine to four on. The collapse of the aristocracy was a good omen. Fitz, he reckoned roughly, would draw about fourteen shillings. He did not grudge it. Securing the sack about his shoulders with a large safety pin Lily had supplied he strode out to face the work of the long day. There would be other and better doubles. His heart told him he was on a winning streak.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On St. Patrick’s Day, the newspapers reported, the weather was somewhat sharp—but for the robust, healthy and invigorating. The display of the chosen leaf was universal. In the Pro-Cathedral and other churches the ceremonies were specially devoted to panegyrics of the national Saint and sermons in Irish were preached to crowded congregations. A visiting English priest reminded the Irish Faithful that it was fifteen hundred years since Ireland’s great Father and Friend had passed away to the music of the spheres. Another referred to Home Rule and prophesied that the hour of National deliverance was at last at hand. The shop windows of the city, including the one Keever had dressed, devoted themselves to displays of home-manufactured goods while the citizens, most of whom had a holiday, went to the races at Baldoyle or made extended excursions by train, tram and outside car. From the flagstaffs of the Town Halls from Dublin to Bray the green flag was floating, Kingstown being the only exception. It was the exception that proved the Rule.