‘Jesus help me,’ she whispered. ‘Jesus help me.’ She was crying.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mr. Doggett, of Doggett & Co., found himself with a problem. A letter, signed by James Larkin, Irish Organiser of the National Union of Dockers, warned him that if he instructed his carters to deliver coal to Morgan’s Foundry there would be a strike. A letter from Morgan & Co. demanded delivery immediately and warned him that the long-standing contract which he shared with Nolan & Keyes would be cancelled and given solely to Nolan & Keyes, if supplies were not despatched. He rightly guessed that his rivals had received a similar letter but had no way of finding out what they intended to do. He had no desire to face a strike. He had no desire either to lose the contract. It was a situation which kept his thoughts fully occupied. It was obvious that Nolan & Keyes shared his dilemma. For some weeks neither accepted the challenge by attempting delivery.
The situation troubled Timothy Keever too, but for a different reason. He worked for Nolan & Keyes and felt there was a moral issue. He decided to put it before Father O’Connor. His opportunity arose when the priest visited him as part of his parish work. Mrs. Keever spent more than she could afford in entertaining him to tea. After the meal Keever brought Father O’Connor into the yard at the back of the cottage to show him the shrine to St. Finbar he had built in his spare time. Father O’Connor seemed impressed.
‘Very beautiful,’ he said.
The shrine occupied the right-hand angle of the back and side walls. The statue was a small one, the tiny grass plot in front accommodated three jamjars with artificial flowers. Keever had distempered the wall behind in yellow and white and had contrived a kneeling board out of a packing case.
‘Maybe you’d say a prayer,’ Keever invited, diffidently.
The idea of kneeling in such surroundings horrified Father O’Connor. Tea with the Keevers, in itself, had been something of an ordeal.
‘Later, perhaps,’ he evaded.
The rest of the yard he noted, was occupied by a manhole cover and the pathway to the outdoor toilet. There was a large box.
‘What is this?’ Father O’Connor asked. It was an alternative topic to the shrine.
It’s for the dog,’ Keever explained. ‘He keeps the cats away. Especially at night.’
‘Ah,’ Father O’Connor said.
The back wall, which was enormously high, puzzled him, until he recognised it as part of the railway embankment. The railway line seemed to be everywhere in the parish of St. Brigid.
‘You have a comfortable home,’ Father O’Connor said. He was not quite sure, now that he had seen the shrine, what was expected of him next.
‘It was my father’s home,’ Keever said, ‘he was a carpenter.’
‘I see.’
‘In his time he was senior prefect.’
There was a strong tradition in favour of the skilled worker in parish activities.
‘Isn’t our present senior prefect a carpenter too?’
‘No, Father, Mr. Hegarty is a bricklayer.’
‘Of course,’ Father O’Connor said.
‘My own father intended me for a trade,’ Keever explained, ‘but God took him at an early age, so I became a carter. In fact I’m in a difficulty at the moment that Mr. Hegarty told me to ask your advice on.’
‘By all means,’ Father O’Connor agreed. He examined the box, found there was no dog present and sat down on it.
While Keever explained the situation in Nolan & Keyes Father O’Connor listened with half a mind. The man before him was, he thought, a model of what the Christian worker should be, accepting his social position with humility and making up for his lack of formal education by his persistence in good works of various kinds. He collected used stamps for the missions from the office staff of Nolan & Keyes and went among the carters on paydays gathering halfpennies for the same purpose. He carried a notebook in which he recorded each subscription as he received it and he handed over the total to Father O’Connor each week. He was constantly seeking recruits for the Church sodality among the men with whom he worked.
‘You are being asked,’ Father O’Connor summarised when he had finished, ‘to refuse your own employer’s instructions in order to force a point against another employer?’
‘That’s what I’m being asked, Father.’
‘And you’ve no grievance against your own employer?’
‘None at all, Father.’
‘It seems to me,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘there can be no moral justification whatever for injuring your own employer in his business because of the supposed shortcomings of some other employer.’
‘That’s how Mr. Hegarty put it.’
‘Mr. Hegarty is perfectly right.’
‘You’ve taken a weight off my mind, Father,’ Keever assured him. He turned again to the statue of St. Finbar, then looked questioningly at Father O’Connor, who hesitated. The shrine and the kneeling board were obviously sources of deep pride. Father O’Connor crossed himself. Despite the dog box, the outdoor toilet, the monstrous, grimy wall, he attempted to pray. He would have liked to gratify Keever’s wish, but the thought of kneeling defeated his will. He crossed himself but remained standing. After a while he crossed himself again and followed Keever back into the kitchen, consoling himself with the thought that at least he was visiting in his parish, and ministering in foul rooms compared with which Keever’s kitchen was a palace. As they went in, a train passed with such a thunderous commotion that the yard and its contents shuddered and seemed to hover on the brink of disintegration.
They had a glass of plain porter each in Mulligan’s snug. It was almost noon. Sunlight caught the edge of the table. The wood was worn. Near where Lily’s glass rested someone had tried to carve initials but they were indecipherable.
‘You shouldn’t have come into this business, love,’ Maisie said. ‘You haven’t the temperament.’
‘I know that now,’ Lily confessed.
‘And this fellow I was talking about,’ Maisie said. ‘Mind you, it’s not everybody he’ll take on, because he’s afraid of gossip. But I think I could persuade him to see you.’
‘Three pounds is a lot of money.’
‘Three guineas, sweetheart, he’s still got his professional pride.’
‘Maybe it isn’t It at all.’
‘Maybe it is. Do you want your teeth going bad and your nice hair . . .’
‘Shut up, for Jaysus’ sake.’
Lily moved her glass until it covered the indecipherable initials.
‘I’m near distracted, Maisie.’
Maisie drained her drink and punched the bell behind her.
‘You don’t want to go to the Locke, do you, with all the ditch-and-doorway element?’
‘God forbid,’ Lily said.
‘‘How are you for money?’
‘Desperate, but I’ve four quid . . .’
‘I wouldn’t call that very desperate,’ Maisie said.
‘ . . . which isn’t mine.’
‘Matter-a-damn who’s it is.’
‘I’m minding it for a fella.’
‘Get yourself looked after, girl.’
A panel opened and a man acknowledged Maisie’s gesture by inclining his bald dome at them. They both waited. He returned and placed two more glasses on the ledge. Maisie paid him and took the drinks to the table.
‘Well . . . ?’ she said to Lily.
‘Give me the address.’
‘That’s the ticket.’ Maisie beamed with relief. ‘He never qualified because of the drink and he’ll have a booze with your three guineas as soon as you leave him. But he won’t let you down if treatment is wanted.’
‘I hope to God he’s good.’
‘Liz and Agnes Benson swear by him. And many another.’
Maisie rooted in her handbag. She found a pencil, but neither of them had a piece of paper.