‘Our insistence hasn’t done much good, has it?’ he remarked.
‘What do you suggest?’ the chairman asked.
It was a question Yearling had answered over and over again. Now he merely shrugged.
‘We have no option,’ the chairman insisted, ‘unless we are prepared to encourage anarchy.’
‘I thought Doggett might fail us,’ someone said. ‘He’s been trick-o’-the-looping.’
‘Not this time,’ the chairman said.
‘He diverted the first load, I’ve been told.’
‘There is an explanation,’ the chairman answered. ‘He had trouble with a foreman. It appears the fellow was in the pay of Larkin and diverted the load on his own initiative. Doggett tells me he has dismissed him.’
‘The only medicine,’ someone approved. ‘Good for Doggett.’
In May the carters of Nolan & Keyes and of Doggett & Co. were joined by all the other carters of the city who went on strike against the masters’ rejection of a general wage demand. New pickets appeared. The coal-carrying trade came to a standstill. Father O’Connor paid off Rashers and closed down the boiler-house for the summer. He wondered if his advice to Keever had been responsible, however indirectly, for closing down the foundry. Whenever he passed a picket throughout the months of June and July the thought came freshly into his mind. He had spoken with a conscientious regard for justice, yet there was another side to it that troubled him, something in the faces of the men: tiredness, the dark lines of hunger, the way they saluted him and the speculative look with which their eyes regarded him as he passed. When he went the rounds of his parish there were hungry children in the strikers’ homes. Poverty might disgust him, but that was some uncontrollable reaction in himself. It was not that he had lost his pity for it.
‘Do you think they would have locked out if all of you had refused delivery?’ he asked Keever.
‘I don’t know, Father. They didn’t at first in Doggett’s.’
‘I see,’ Father O’Connor said.
‘The men are blaming me.’
‘You must tell them . . .’ Father O’Connor began. He had been about to add ‘that Father O’Connor advised you.’ But he had second thoughts. The Church had its own work. He must keep clear of conflicts in a world he did not altogether understand. He had been asked for a moral judgment. He had given it. The rest was not his business.
‘Tell them the Christian workman must at all times acknowledge certain principles to be above the claims of man-made organizations.’
Keever decided not to mention that he had already done so. He had been told what to do with his principles. It hurt him but had no persuasive effect whatever. Finding no outlet for ambition or reason for hope on earth, Keever had long ago fixed heaven with acquisitive and unflinching eyes.
‘At the same time we have a duty to help the wives and children,’ Father O’Connor said. ‘I want you to make a list of families for me—not more than ten for a start—whom you think are most in need of relief. You and Mr. Hegarty and the members of the Confraternity Committee can make up some food parcels for distribution.’
‘I’ll do that, Father.’
Father O’Connor thought Keever looked uneasy.
‘Do you not agree?’
‘Certainly, Father, of course,’ Keever said.
‘Very well. Let me have the list as soon as you can.’
There was a large press in Father O’Connor’s bedroom, which was quite empty. He decided that tins of cocoa would be easiest to store and more nourishing than tea. Sugar and tins of milk would be no problem. He ordered these in quantity. While he was at it he decided to stock in some blankets. They would be cheaper now that summer was coming and could be held against the winter. He found room for these in the press also. Drawing the money by cheque, visiting shops, consulting with the two prefects, kept him busy and contented. They spent three evenings in the room behind the vestry making up parcels. Each contained a packet of flour, a tin of cocoa and a tin of milk. It was good to work so humbly for others.
The rumours of disagreement between Sexton and Larkin persisted. Fitz was certain that sooner or later the Liverpool Executive would stop their strike pay.
‘Isn’t Larkin collecting in Cork?’ Joe pointed out.
‘I’d feel happier with a little cash in reserve, just the same,’ Fitz said.
They were resting on a piece of waste ground near the river, a favourite site for games of pitch and toss. Nettles and weeds wrestled for possession of the few feet of soil. A mane of grass, reaching upwards through the broken bottom of an upturned bucket, had the gloss of health.
‘If you need it badly I can lay hands on a couple of pounds for you,’ Pat offered.
‘Where?’
‘From Lily.’
‘The fancy woman,’ Joe put in.
‘It’s my own money,’ Pat added, ignoring him. ‘She’s minding four pounds for me.’
Joe looked up at the blue sky and joined his hands across his belly.
‘Minding it for him,’ he said, addressing his scepticism directly to God.
‘When do you want it?’ Pat asked Fitz.
Joe remained in isolated communion with the Powers above him.
‘There’s no great hurry,’ Fitz said.
The Angelus bell sounded from a nearby church. When they had taken off their hats and crossed themselves Joe asked:
‘Did you hear it was the curate in St. Brigid’s advised Keever to carry on?’
‘I didn’t hear that,’ Fitz admitted.
‘We’re a priest-ridden race,’ Pat declared, ‘but we’ll get rid of them.’
‘When?’ Joe asked.
‘When we organise and establish a Workers’ Republic.’
‘With Lily Maxwell in the chair.’
‘Leave Lily Maxwell alone.’
‘That’s what you should do,’ Joe said, goading him.
‘You’ll have your money tomorrow,’ Pat assured Fitz.
But though he tried throughout the week to find Lily she seemed to have disappeared. There was no answer when he knocked at her room. Maisie, when he met her, said she had no idea where Lily could be. He met her again and was told the same thing. The second time he got the impression that she was lying.
Chandlers Court looked out on the summer evenings and waited for whatever might choose to happen. There was a tension in the streets, a promise of action which seemed each day to be on the point of materialising, but which never did. The weather, mercifully, made heating unnecessary, but fires were still needed for cooking. In No. 3 a communal system helped the economy. They pooled their resources and took it in turns to use each other’s fireplace. Mary began to know the lives of those about her. The Mulhalls lived best. They had a table with a cover, good chairs, a dresser well stocked with crockery. Mrs. Mulhall was a woman who polished and scrubbed. The Bartleys below were clean people too, but the room was poorly equipped because Mr. Bartley never seemed to be able to find anything except casual work. The little boy at whose bed Father Giffley had watched some years before was now a messenger with one of the grocery shops. He earned half a crown a week, which helped to pay the rent. Most of all she hated going to the Hennessys, who were desperately poor. They drank out of tins and jamjars and spread covering on the floors at night for their numerous children.
The first ten families listed by Keever received their food parcels with gratitude. They were all, in one way or another, intimates of his. With the second ten he ran into trouble. After an evening of successive calls he returned to Father O’Connor. Hegarty and he placed the parcels on the table.
‘What’s this?’ Father O’Connor asked.
‘We had trouble,’ Keever said.
‘They refused to take the parcels,’ Hegarty explained.
‘They refused . . .’