‘Can I help you, Father?’
After a moment the other raised his head and looked around at him.
‘It’s nothing,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘a little turn.’ He had never spoken to Father O’Connor before. He thought it strange that he should meet him like this on the day the priest had decided to call on Mary.
‘I could get a cab for you.’
‘No . . . please.’ He hesitated. ‘I know you, I think—a parishioner.’
‘Fitzpatrick, Father.’
‘That’s it. Your wife, I think . . .’
Fitz made no offer to fill in the long pause.
‘I followed your meeting from the station and listened for a while. I began to feel unwell . . . the heat, probably.’
‘You should let me call a cab.’
‘No—I feel better in the air.’
Fitz hesitated.
‘Then let me walk back with you to the church.’
It would mean being late for work, and for a moment he hoped the other would refuse. But Father O’Connor accepted and said:
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’
Fitz took his arm lightly. They walked in silence until they had left the river behind and were in the main thoroughfare once more. Father O’Connor released his arm and said he felt much better. Yet his face was drained of colour and he walked with a slight uncertainty.
‘I followed your meeting because I thought I might catch a glimpse of Mr. Larkin.’
‘He’s in gaol, Father.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Father O’Connor said, attempting a smile. ‘The extraordinary thing is I’ve known that since early afternoon.’
‘We’re trying to get him released.’
‘It’s an extraordinary thing,’ Father O’Connor said again. ‘I knew that and yet I followed with the idea . . .’ He stopped.
‘It was being unwell, I suppose. I was unwell and didn’t realise it. However, I’m much better now—thanks to you.’
‘You’re more than welcome, Father,’ Fitz said. They had reached the iron railings which cut off the courtyard of the church from the footpath. Fitz tried the side gate and found it open. He held it for the priest.
‘I’ve kept you from your home.’
‘Not at all, Father,’ Fitz said.
‘Do you often attend meetings of this kind?’
‘Whenever I can.’
Father O’Connor appeared to make a great effort of will.
‘You must be careful,’ he said. ‘There are men who pretend to have sympathy with the working men and the unemployed in order to win power for themselves—power for the socialists.’
‘I don’t know very much about these things, Father,’ Fitz said. He wanted to avoid an argument.
‘It’s an evil doctrine. You must be careful who you set up as your leaders.’
‘It isn’t difficult, Father. We haven’t had many to choose from,’ Fitz said. He was already late for work. The delay would cost him a quarter—three hours’ pay.
‘Guard your faith and listen only to those who honour it,’ Father O’Connor said. He spoke gently and, to Fitz, like one who was hearing his own voice from a distance. He looked very ill.
‘You should go in, Father,’ he urged.
‘Thank you,’ Father O’Connor said. His tone was warm. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’
Fitz raised his cap. His feet sounded loudly in the street. It was after midnight.
They arrived back at Chandlers Court within minutes of each other—first Rashers and Hennessy, then Mulhall alone.
‘You did well,’ Hennessy said in the hallway, ‘you did magnificent.’
‘One and threepence,’ Rashers agreed, with modesty.
‘I mean the ballad,’ Hennessy corrected. ‘It was a great success.’
‘Success is one thing,’ Rashers reminded him, ‘money is another.’
‘You got both.’
‘For once,’ Rashers allowed. He fumbled. ‘Have a cigarette.’
‘It’s too late.’
‘I took one from you out of your plenty. Now you take one of mine.’
‘I’ll take it upstairs with me.’
‘Bring it to bed with you if the fancy takes you that way.’
Hennessy pushed the cigarette behind his ear. It was pitch dark in the hall and there was an evil smell. Hennessy wrinkled his nose and sniffed.
‘Some bowsie did his what-you-know,’ he complained.
Rashers wasn’t squeamish.
‘It’s an old Dublin custom—there must have been a queue for the jakes.’
‘I can’t stand that,’ Hennessy said. ‘It’s the one thing I can’t abide.’
‘You worked in too many high-falutin’ houses—feeding yourself on grapes and delicacies.’
‘They were right at that meeting tonight. We live and die like animals. I’ll go on up. I can’t stick it.’
Rashers chuckled. As he was going he said:
‘Mind you don’t walk in it.’
Hennessy, his foot feeling out for the first rung of the stairs, froze for a moment. He picked his way delicately.
The door of Father Giffley’s bedroom opened and his voice called:
‘Father O’Sullivan . . .’
The corridor seemed unfamiliarly long. A gas-lamp at the far end, turned low, cast a blue half-light. Father O’Connor stopped.
‘It’s Father O’Connor,’ he managed after a while.
‘Oh—you.’ The voice changed. ‘Isn’t it rather late?’
With a great effort of will Father O’Connor pushed aside the temptation to ignore the question, to walk on to his bedroom and leave his superior standing there. For the moment he felt physically unable to bear up to criticism.
‘I was delayed.’
‘Please step into my room.’ Father Giffley had a dressing gown over his nightshirt and, incongruously, his priest’s biretta perched on his head. He seemed to have been reading. A black-covered book lay open, but face downwards, on a bedside chair.
‘Father O’Sullivan was obliged to go out on a sick call,’ he reproved. Father O’Connor should have been available. It was his duty period.
‘I felt unwell when I got off the train and did something quite unaccountable.’
‘Indeed.’
‘There was a protest march—banners, slogans, torches; the street in front of the station was packed with them.’
‘Until this hour?’ Father Giffley commented. He smiled humourlessly.
‘They were demanding Larkin’s release. I followed them to their meeting place. There were socialists on their platform and they listened with respect and cheered them. I heard a vile diatribe from one of them against the Church. They cheered him. Later—I don’t remember how—I found myself standing on Butt Bridge.’
Father Giffley stared at him and then, knitting his brows, asked: ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘I haven’t that habit,’ Father O’Connor said. The contemptuous phrase escaped him before he could stop it. It stung his conscience. Besides, it was a lie. He cast around for some way to correct himself, to say he had taken a little wine, but had not been drinking in the sense implied by Father Giffley. It was too difficult. The room, like the corridor, had a bluish tint which made his stomach unwell. He narrowed his eyes so that he would see as little of it as possible. A wave of nausea made him tremble.
‘May I sit down?’ he asked.
Father Giffley, detecting the tremor, waved towards a chair and peered at him.
‘A bilious attack. You have a very bad colour,’ he pronounced.
‘Please forgive me if I . . .’
‘A small drop of brandy is what you need.’
Father O’Connor shook his head.
‘You look as though you could do with it.’ The voice had grown a shade kinder.