‘Who is it?’
‘Hennessy.’
‘Come in.’
Hennessy was wearing an unfamiliar bowler and a coat that was too large for him.
‘Style—begod,’ Rashers commented.
‘I was given them from a house in Nutley Lane,’ Hennessy said. ‘What are you lying there for?’
‘I’m in bed—a most respectable place to be.’
‘You should be above in the streets singing ballads. Such excitement. Did you not meet up with any of it? There was a procession and speeches.’
‘I declare to God the Parnell anniversary parade. And I never thought of it.’
‘That’s not until next week.’
‘It’s no use anyway,’ Rashers said, ‘they’re not very givish with the money.’
‘They’ve released Larkin,’ Hennessy explained. ‘The Viceroy himself ordered it. The Irish flag and the stars and stripes is flying outside 10 Beresford Place and there’s a meeting going on this past hour. Get up and come round to it with your ballad.’
Rashers shook his head. He had eaten; he had drawn his ten shillings wages. Besides, he was not feeling too well.
‘I’m not up to the mark,’ he said. ‘The oul chest. And the leg is giving me hell.’
The bowler was too big for Hennessy. He pushed it up off his forehead.
‘It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.’
‘No,’ Rashers said, ‘sing it for them yourself.’
Hennessy wondered would he. It would earn money. There were thousands crammed in the street outside the union hall. They would be there for about an hour more; longer, if Larkin decided to speak again. But he had never yet, in the extremes of his neediness, tried singing as a livelihood. It would be a step nearer to beggary. It surprised him to find that there was a step still below him. He would work at anything; he would scrounge and borrow; he would not stand in the street and sing. With tact, he said:
‘I wouldn’t have the voice.’
‘I’ve heard to the differ—that you’re a great hand at a song or a recitation.’
‘I haven’t the right kind of voice for the outdoor stuff.’
‘Try the pubs.’
‘No,’ Hennessy said, ‘it’s your ballad. I wouldn’t make use of it.’
‘Please yourself,’ Rashers said.
Disappointed, Hennessy moved towards the door.
‘Before you go,’ Rashers said, ‘take a swig of this.’
‘Glory be to God!’ Hennessy exclaimed, when he saw the bottle. He took out the cork and swallowed.
‘You’re welcome to your half—if you care to stay.’
Tempted, Hennessy hesitated. But he thought of the crowds, the speeches, the excitement. Something might happen, something that had never happened before and, as like as not, would never happen again.
‘No. I’ll get back. I wouldn’t care to miss what’s going on.’
‘Please yourself,’ Rashers said again.
‘Well . . . I hope your chest improves. A good night’s rest works wonders.’
The door dosed. Rashers, disappointed in his turn, reached once more for the candle, smothering the flame between his finger and thumb. The dog whimpered. Rusty would stay with him, anyway.
When Rashers lay down he fell asleep, but after an hour or less he woke up coughing. He groped again for the whiskey. At the first gulp his cough got worse. At the second it stopped. Now that he knew where the housekeeper kept it, there was always the chance of acquiring a little from time to time. They sent him to the kitchen on and off for messages. Quite often there was nobody there. A drop now and then for medicine, to help him sleep. There wouldn’t be any great harm in that. ‘Well—we’ll see,’ he said aloud to the dog. He took a third swig for good measure. He lay back then and slept right through until the morning.
While he did so the submerged city continued to gather at Beresford Place. They were coming out en masse once again, as Father O’Connor had seen them do only a few months previously, coming from hovels and tenements, flaunting their rags and their destitution, disrupting traffic and driving the respectable off the pavements. Once again their arrogance astounded the press, which brought the whole story to Father O’Connor at breakfast the next morning. He was disturbed, for it appeared now that some of the well-to-do class had spoken from Larkin’s platform congratulating him on his release, describing it as a victory for the workers of Dublin.
‘Can you tell me who Countess Markiewicz is, Father?’ he enquired, over his paper.
Father O’Sullivan thought very hard but had to acknowledge that he did not know. He was not greatly interested in such things. Father Giffley, who was also at table, did. However, he did not feel like enlightening Father O’Connor; instead, he held out his cup to him, requesting more tea with an aloof movement of his eyebrows.
For brief moments over an endless day it was the iron end-piece of a bed, the rough boards of the ward, a nurse, an old woman in a shapeless grey dress. It was a face filling the whole of the visible, bending. But for long periods it was the laneway at home, winding between ash and sycamore, with blue sky and white cloud above the branches of trees, so dizzily bright that when you stared too long it all swung upside down and you fell in. In the house it was evening with shadows already in the corners and the fire burning high on the hearth. You took food on a tray to the loft where among sacks and oddments two bearded faces turned towards you when you entered. They took the food and said ‘Thank you’ in very good voices indeed. Once, one of them, the younger one who was very manly and handsome said:
‘How old are you, Sara?’
‘Seventeen, sir.’
‘You mustn’t call me sir—I’m only twenty. Do you think we will escape?’
‘I pray for it—I keep praying.’
‘You’re very kind, Sara. And you’re terribly pretty.’
‘No, indeed.’
‘But yes, Sara. I hope you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘I don’t mind.’
Why would you mind? It was forward but not when a young man was about to be captured and to die maybe, not then. Or the evening when he came down to the kitchen and asked if he might speak to you for a little while. Or the morning the soldiers came and his eyes, the way they looked at you as they took him away. You walked again among the ash and the sycamore and in the terrible silence that would never more be broken it was the look in the eyes you remembered. She would never breed men like that again, Ireland of the heroes and the songs and the great deeds. It was strange you could remember forever a young face and strong fingers reaching to take bread from a platter and a voice saying ‘You’re terribly pretty’ and a look in a pair of going-away eyes. It was ash and sycamore, it was shadows and a fire, it was bare boards and a nurse and the end-piece of an iron bed.
She stirred and felt she must sit up. Just once, before she gave in finally to the weariness and the sickness. It was hard though, to overcome it. Several times she tensed the muscles and levered on her elbows and thought at last she was sitting up; yet when she shook her head to clear it she was still lying down and had not stirred at all. Was she, then, powerless? For ever? She tried again and again, until at last she found she was really and truly off her back. Not sitting up, she discovered, but raised, supported by her elbows, seeing the beds about her, some empty, some occupied. It was morning, she thought. Those not in bed were busy with small tasks. None of them seemed to notice her. She tried to talk to the woman in the bed beside her but succeeded only in making noises. She persisted, searching for speech until at last the head turned towards her. The eyes stared at her and the voice called out: