Hennessy jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the hall of 3 Chandlers Court. Rashers looked unbelieving.
‘No,’ he challenged.
‘When the Kennys move out.’
This was news to Rashers.
‘They’re off to America in a fortnight. I’d like to go myself.’ Another thought struck him.
‘Suppose you found the Crown Jewels or something—would you go to America?’
‘I’d often a wish to go to France.’
‘The French have a queer way of living,’ Rashers said. ‘Very immoral, by all accounts.’
‘I’d like to see the vineyards.’
‘Isn’t porter good enough for you?’
‘It’s the grapes. Lovely green clusters.’
‘Some of them is black.’
‘Did you ever taste grapes?’
‘Every morning at breakfast,’ Rashers said, putting on a grand accent, ‘and twice of a Sunday.’
‘Grapes is the loveliest things you ever tasted,’ Hennessy said.
‘Wasn’t I reared on them,’ Rashers insisted.
‘I worked on a job in a kitchen in Merrion Square,’ Hennessy explained, ‘and the oul wan there was never done eating grapes. For a fortnight I had grapes every day because I used to lift a few off the table. I’ve always had a wish for grapes since then.’
‘Were they black or green?’
‘Black.’
‘Them is for invalids,’ Rashers said, knowledgeably.
‘I’d better go up,’ Hennessy said.
But Rashers was in a mood for conversation.
‘Sit down, can’t you,’ he appealed.
‘I wouldn’t risk it. The pain in me back is desperate.’
Rashers fumbled under his coat and took out the ’cello string. He screwed up his face until the beard covered it completely and said in sudden love of all mankind:
‘Here, you can have it.’
‘I couldn’t take it,’ Hennessy said.
‘Amn’t I offering it to you for nothing.’
‘No. I couldn’t deprive you.’
Rashers cursed violently.
‘You’re a contrairy bloody man,’ he shouted. ‘I proffered it to you for tuppence and you wouldn’t venture the money. Then I offer it to you for nothing, for the sake of neighbourliness and friendship, and begod, you say you couldn’t take it. Have you rheumatism at all?’
Hennessy looked behind nervously.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he pleaded.
If you didn’t eat so many bloody grapes,’ Rashers said loudly, ‘you wouldn’t have rheumatism.’
Hennessy panicked and said:
‘All right. I’ll sit down to please you.’
The steps felt wet. After a while Hennessy shivered and drew his coat about him with his hands. They sat talking in low voices, Hennessy to sober up a little before facing his wife, Rashers because it was hardly less comfortable than his room and had the advantage of company of a kind. The dog sat with them too, its head turning from one side to the other as occasional footsteps approached and passed.
‘The first thing you’d do if you found the Crown Jewels is buy grapes, isn’t that right?’ Rashers asked.
‘And go to France,’ Hennessy agreed.
‘The first thing I’d do is buy a tin whistle,’ Rashers said, ‘and stay where I bloody well am and play it.’
The belligerent note disappeared. His voice became gloomy. ‘And it’s not a lot to ask for, is it?’ he added. They were silent. Then Rashers looked up into the rain at the darkness of the sky.
‘Do you think Jesus Christ is up there?’ he asked.
‘And His blessed Mother,’ Hennessy affirmed, touching his hat.
‘Can he see us?’
‘That’s what the Penny Catechism says.’
‘Through the rain?’
‘I don’t think the rain makes any difference.’
They rose and faced the hallway. Above their heads all the windows, spaced out evenly in the flat face of the tenement, showed their late lamps. As they moved forward the dog stiffened and barked. They looked around. A tall figure approached, paused to pet the dog and said:
‘Good night, men.’
Each said good night in turn. The man passed on. Hennessy, his magpie eyes alight with information once again, gazed after the retreating figure. Then he turned to Rashers.
‘Do you know who that was?’
‘He was polite, anyway,’ Rashers said, pleased about the dog.
‘It was Jim Larkin,’ Hennessy said, delighted that he had so easily identified someone who was becoming the talk of Dublin.
CHAPTER SIX
The city faced the winter as best it could. It had its days of good weather, the freakish out-of-season days that always came to surprise it, as though a piece of summer had fallen from heaven out of its turn, days when the gulls looked whiter and the river wore a blue, chilled sparkle.
It was on such a day that Fitz took Mary to view the flat in Chandlers Court. He was uncertain how she would take it. She had hoped so much for a place of their own. But she realised it was best to make definite plans as soon as possible. Her own small capital was almost exhausted.
The hallway, even on so good a morning, looked grim enough. The staircase and the worn steps sagged and creaked as they climbed. But the rooms themselves were better. A large window overlooking the street gave glimpses of the mountains, now blue and bare, and admitted plenty of sunlight. Children at play in the street made sounds that were happy and tolerably distant. The large fireplace, with its marble surround left over from better days, gave plenty of room for cooking. A bedroom and a kitchenette completed the flat which, at four shillings and threepence a week was dearer, but then bigger, than average. The Kennys would be leaving in a week. When they reached the street again Mary said:
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘It suits me.’
She tightened her arm on his and said: ‘It’s a nice room but I wonder about the house.’
‘The people across the landing are all right.’
‘And above?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
Mary considered. Then she said: ‘Let’s take it, Fitz.’
‘Good,’ he said, ‘we’ll take it next week.’
‘How can we do that?’
‘I can move in with Pat,’ Fitz said.
‘Won’t he mind?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s a bit dearer, but he isn’t happy about the place we’re in.’
Joe Somerville was with Pat when Fitz made the suggestion. Pat had lit the fire and was drying a pair of drawers.
‘It’s a dearer room,’ Fitz said, ‘but I’ll stand the extra.’
‘Why don’t you move in with the girl right away?’ Pat asked.
Fitz smiled and said: ‘Some people regard that as immoral.’
‘It wouldn’t deter me,’ Pat said.
‘We all know your tastes in the matter,’ Joe said sourly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Down in Mabbot Street with Lily Maxwell.’
‘It isn’t in Mabbot Street.’
‘Then wherever it is. Fitz thinks more of himself than that.’
‘I don’t see what’s wrong with Lily Maxwell.’
‘Visiting the kip shops,’ Joe said, ‘when you get a skinful.’
‘It’s a very natural class of an occupation.’
‘It’s not Christian,’ Joe said.
‘I’ve never laid claim to being a Christian,’ Pat said, in a reasonable tone.
The steam from the drawers rose about his wrists and face and upwards towards the oil lamp on the box beside him.
‘You’ll crack the funnel of the lamp!’ Joe shouted.
He was low-sized and squat and worked for Nolan & Keyes with Pat. Pat moved the lamp back.
‘As a socialist,’ he explained, ‘I don’t regard marriage as necessary.’
‘The union of decent Christians has to be blessed by a priest,’ Joe insisted.