‘Nurse . . . Nurse . . . come quickly.’
The rest stopped what they were doing to turn and stare. Then she saw the whole face clearly, a grey, alarmed face with a single brown snot oozing down in a thin line from one nostril to the mouth. She thought of her snuff and knew that she had found out at last. Her speech came back to her suddenly, in a storm of shock and anger.
‘It was you, you bitch,’ she screamed, ‘it was you that robbed me.’
The nurse had reached her and was about to push her back. There was no need. Her elbows slid gently under her of their own accord, her body, of its own accord, settled back again on the mattress. There was no further movement in the face and, when the nurse took the wrist, no further movement discernible in the pulse. She went for the doctor. He took his time about coming. When he arrived it was only to draw the coarse sheet over Miss Gilchrist’s face.
CHAPTER THREE
The morning was bright, the sky high and blue, on the walls of gardens not yet reached by the sun the frost was a black gleam. The carriage, as it swayed on the cobbles past the grounds of Blackrock College, gave views of the sea on the right, a wide sweep of water, a great chilled sparkle. Mrs. Bradshaw found it cold. She wrapped her furs more closely about her, reconsidering their itinerary. First to Father O’Connor, to tell him what she proposed to do. He had sent word to her immediately, asking for her instructions. He would do everything for her, of course, he would arrange all from beginning to end. But she did not want it that way. There were some things which must be attended to personally. This was one of them, a matter of individual responsibility, a question of conscience. If Mr. Bradshaw found out he would fume and rant. If necessary, that would have to be faced. For too long now the fate of her one-time servant had haunted her mind. In the little service that was left to be done to Miss Gilchrist she would not fail.
Father O’Connor, summoned to the waiting room, was surprised, she could see that. It was early. Outside, the bell was still being rung for the ten o’clock mass. A deformed and bearded creature had been dragging fiercely on the rope when she entered the church grounds. She knew what she was going to say to Father O’Connor when he protested—as he would. He would not think it fitting that she should visit Mary Fitzpatrick. She prepared herself to be inflexible.
‘Mrs. Bradshaw . . .’ Father O’Connor said, advancing to greet her.
‘You’re surprised to see me, Father?’
‘I intended to call out to you this morning. You shouldn’t have troubled to come all the way in . . .’
‘I’ve made up my mind what should be done. Miss Gilchrist will have a funeral.’
‘But of course, I’ve notified the authorities already that there must be no question of a pauper’s grave.’
‘I mean a proper funeral, with some carriages following.’
‘Carriages?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘Is that necessary?’
‘I feel it is.’
‘But—who will travel in them?’
‘She had one friend—Mary Fitzpatrick. If Mary and her husband and perhaps one or two of their friends went, it would be perfect.’
‘But . . . unnecessary, surely?’
‘For me,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said, ‘it is very necessary that this should be done as I know Miss Gilchrist would wish. Now—I want you to give me Mary Fitzpatrick’s address.’
‘Do you intend to call on her?’
‘I do.’
The answer left Father O’Connor without words. He had been standing. Now he walked to the corner of the room, took a chair and brought it to the table. He sat down.
‘Have you any idea of the surroundings you are going to visit?’
‘A tenement room?’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. ‘My husband owns several housefuls of them. There are, I understand, thousands of them. Aren’t they part of our city?’
‘They are part of our city, but not necessarily fitting places to be visited.’
Mrs. Bradshaw bowed her head. She looked down at the gloved hands which lay joined on her lap.
‘You, of all the people I know, should recognise this feeling, this absolute necessity . . .’
She stopped and looked up suddenly at him. Her eyes appealed for his understanding. He knew what she meant. No words of his would clear her of the guilt that she felt. Only restitution, given in the form which seemed to her to be fitting, would do that.
‘You are not responsible,’ he said to her. ‘You did not decide the matter. Besides, in all the circumstances—what else was there to do?’
‘I’ve asked myself that many times.’
‘And you still don’t know—isn’t that so?’
‘I know what should be done now,’ she said with decision. ‘For the moment that will be sufficient.’ Her determination impressed him.
‘Very well. I’ll give you the address. Meanwhile, let me call for some tea.’
The carriage took her back past the railway station again, under the gloomy iron bridge, past a public house on a corner where men stood in a group, talking, spitting, waiting for something to happen, for a cart to pass that was shy a helper, for someone to come along who would stand a drink, for the sun to climb a bit higher, the day to grow a bit warmer.
‘Number 3 Chandlers Court,’ she said again to the driver, raising the leather flap to project her voice to where he was sitting.
‘That’s where we’re headed ma’am,’ he assured her.
They went down a long street, took a turn right and slowed to a walk.
‘Chandlers Court, ma’am,’ he shouted in to her, ‘Number 3.’
He drew back on the reins and the carriage came to a standstill. He opened the door.
‘Wait here for me,’ she instructed. He nodded. The steps that led up to the hall were uneven, the fanlight was broken, the door stood wide open. The area showed a basement window stuffed with cardboard. From each window of the four storeys above her poles stuck out and carried ropes which supported drying clothes. It was, she could see, wash day. She went uncertainly through the gloomy hall, climbed the stairs to the front room on the first landing and knocked.
At first Mary did not recognise her. She stood staring, until at last Mrs. Bradshaw had to say, gently:
‘May I come in for just a moment, Mary?’
‘Mrs. Bradshaw . . .’
Mary opened the door wide and her guest went through. The room was clean, Mrs. Bradshaw noticed. There was very little in it. A table and a couple of rough kitchen chairs, a dresser of sorts, a long couch with a clumsy, home-made look about it and on the mantelpiece, incongruously, a large, ornamental clock.
‘Please sit down,’ Mary invited. She chose a kitchen chair. There was a fire in the grate, warm enough to keep the cooking pot and kettle simmering but not big enough to heat satisfactorily the large room. Mrs. Bradshaw saw another door to the left and surmised a bedroom. Mary sat opposite. It was the first time she had ever been seated in the presence of Mrs. Bradshaw. She sat straight and still, waiting for the other to speak.
‘You are wondering why I’ve come,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. ‘It’s about Miss Gilchrist. She . . . died yesterday.’
‘Oh,’ Mary said. The news was a shock. Death always was. Week after week you saw it in the eyes, yet week after week they opened and looked when your footsteps sounded across the floor of the ward. Recognition, a smile. Until you came to believe that it was going to go on that way, a part of the world, like making a bottle for the baby, or washing on Mondays and shopping on Saturdays. Mary nodded and said:
‘Poor Miss Gilchrist.’
‘You were very good to her.’