‘I have never thought about it.’
‘Never?’
Father O’Sullivan frowned in his effort to give a precise answer.
‘Perhaps at times I have noticed . . . I honestly can’t say.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Father Giffley said. ‘I don’t blame the people. I blame those who are responsible for a deplorable state of affairs; hypocrites and windbags—all of them pious, and all of them pitiless.’
‘Would you agree with Mr. Larkin, then?’
Father Giffley hit the book on his knee with the flat of his hand.
‘I do—by the Lord Harry. He’ll do what our respected colleagues haven’t the stomach to attempt—he’ll put the fear of God into all of them.’
He stared at the opposite wall. Father O’Sullivan, watching his face, began to fear for him. His eyes gleamed too brightly, his mouth was rigid. Once again the eyes turned to Father O’Sullivan.
‘We seem to be missing the pleasure of Father O’Connor’s company.’
Anxiety made Father O’Sullivan’s voice unsure.
‘It’s his evening free.’
‘I am aware of that. Does he visit in the parish?’
‘No. In Kingstown, I think. He has friends out there.’
‘Ah yes, his comfortable friends. I thought he had given up all that to work among the poor.’
Father O’Sullivan attempted an explanation.
‘They give him money from time to time, I understand, which he distributes through the Confraternity Committee.’
‘Hmm. He doesn’t distribute it himself, of course.’
‘He doesn’t wish to have the credit.’
‘You mean he hasn’t the stomach for it,’ Father Giffley said. ‘I may not know the sayings of all the philosophers, but I know something about character. St. Brigid’s has taught me.’
Father O’Sullivan lowered his eyes, embarrassed.
‘You think I should keep a bridle on my tongue—eh, Father?’
Father O’Sullivan did not reply.
‘The tongue was made to speak truth and do battle,’ Father Giffley insisted. ‘I’ll risk the occasional sin of uncharity.’
He went abruptly back to his book, fidgeted about, then wrote the letters of the word Satisfaction under each other from the top to the bottom of the page. He began to make a poem. It was an old device of his. Sometimes it worked. He roughed out the lines on one sheet of paper and then, when each seemed right, he put it after its appropriate letter in the black-covered book. As he struggled with his task the night grew older. An hour, two hours, passed. Father O’Sullivan completed what he was writing and excused himself. The servant restocked the fire twice. At last Father Giffley re-read what he had written:
Sun on the river spreads peace in this Sabbath of stillness
After the season of toil, the sorrow of labour
The children of bondage have straightened and flung away tiredness
In parks and at pastimes escaped from their tyrant the harbour
Seagull, you skim on white feathers where old ships are sleeping
Fleeing the stain that pursues on the face of the water
All who are born, all under Heaven’s strange keeping
Carry the stain and drag the same shadow after.
Teach me O symbol, Sing of the Holy Spirit
I am in dread and seek to outstrip the shadow
Oh, lead Thou to God and His Presence—lead, through Christ’s Merit.
Not to His Feet, but Their Print in the dews of His Meadow.
It disappointed him. He did not like it very much, although he had struggled manfully with it and it had taken a long, long time, so long that he was stiff and his eyes ached. Still, it had served its purpose. He went up to his room, undressed wearily and got into bed. He felt tired in a dull way, all his interest spent. He was no poet, yet he had accomplished something better than a poem. He had resisted the urge to open the press, to feel with trembling fingers for the neck of the bottle. Once more he had won a victory. It would be only temporary, he knew that. But each temporary triumph would stave off a little longer the eventual collapse. It would come, that collapse. Father Giffley did not try to fool himself. It was a disease—this appetite of his. He had seen others. Unless by a miracle of grace . . . and he was unworthy of that.
They were lighting the lamps in Chandlers Court. The children still played in the street. They were used to Rashers and his dog by now and let both pass without stopping to jeer at them as was once their habit. Rashers paid no attention either. He was tired and unwell. But he had food in his bag and the whiskey Father Giffley had said he was to get. It was a generous measure—nearly half a bottle. That was something. The housekeeper was glad to give away as much of it as she could. It would leave all the less for the parish priest, God help him. It was not right in a priest to . . . And then his face, purple all the time. The smell of peppermints from his breath too. She had seen it begin and she had seen it become a habit and then more than habit. She had seen . . . Well, there were strange things in the world and indeed if everybody was made the same it would be a very dull place indeed. It wasn’t always the virtuous and the temperate who were the most forbearing and considerate of those in a lowlier station. Not by a long chalk. Father Giffley was a harsh man with his equals and his superiors, more power to him, but he was seldom cross with those who had the menial place. He took everything from them as it came. There were certain others now . . . no names—no pack drill.
Rashers hoped Hennessy might be about, but there was no sign of him. He could have shared some of the whiskey with him and he would have welcomed his chat. Hennessy had an interest in things. Hennessy had suggested staying in the boiler-house. It seemed to have done his rheumatism good, but not his bronchitis. He wanted to tell Hennessy that. Hennessy would be interested. And now this dark damp hall, these rickety stairs and the wave of cold, wet air and the smell of clay as he opened the door to the basement room.
‘Like a grave, Rusty,’ he said, groping about for the bottle with the candle butt. It gave a wavering light. His bedding was still as he had left it, the rags lying in a heap at the bottom of the straw. The biscuit box had another coat of rust and the jamjars were stained with stale tea.
‘No fire to cock your behind to tonight, Rusty,’ he said. The dog sat down on the clay floor, first to scratch itself, then to sniff at the accumulated odours, his nose detecting and defining delicately the week’s trespassers.
‘Have they been here?’ Rashers questioned. He was taking off his clothes.
‘You’re not to go eating them,’ he warned. ‘Chase them if you want to—kill them with my full licence and leave; but don’t devour them. Don’t even taste them. The rats in this bloody place would poison you.’
He lay back on the bedding and adjusted the rags about him.
‘Anyway, we have some tasty morsels here.’
From the sack near his head he selected food, giving portion of it to the dog. Both began to eat. For tonight, at least, there was enough and plenty. He put a little of the meat aside to give to Mrs. Bartley and the children. It would be nourishing for them and there would be luck in the eating of it, since it had come from the table of the priest. Good luck and bad luck wandered the streets outside, invisible, so that you never knew until afterwards which of the pair you had been meeting up with. Above the streets were God and His Mother, His saints, His angels. Sometimes, if the luck was too persistently bad, one or other of them might intervene to help you out. They had done so for Rashers. Brushing the crumbs from his beard, he gave thanks. He was stretching out his hand to put out the candle when someone knocked at the door.