‘There was so little I could do.’
‘You visited her . . .’ Mrs. Bradshaw continued.
‘So little . . .’Mary repeated, not listening, and found herself crying.
Mrs. Bradshaw waited a while and then said:
‘I’ve come to ask you to do something more.’
‘Now?’
‘Miss Gilchrist will be taken from that terrible place. She will be put to rest in a proper and dignified way, with those who knew her in attendance. Father O’Connor will make the funeral arrangements. If it can be done at all, I would like you and your husband to attend. Would you do so?’
‘I’d like to,’ Mary said, ‘but we haven’t . . .’
‘Where does your husband work?’
‘With Morgan & Co.—the foundry.’
‘I’ll send a carriage for you. If your husband can’t be free, perhaps a neighbour would go with you.’
‘When will it be?’
‘In the morning to Glasnevin cemetery. I’ll go myself with Father O’Connor.’
‘I’m sure we’ll be able to manage,’ Mary said.
‘You were always a good girl,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. She rose. Mary remembered that she had not been offered hospitality.
‘May I make you some tea?’
‘You have your children to attend to . . .’
‘They’re both asleep. It’s no trouble.’
Mrs. Bradshaw wondered what would be the right thing to do. What could this bare home offer without hardship to those who lived in it? The pale, pretty face with its dark hair waited uncertainly for her answer.
‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ Mrs. Bradshaw decided, ‘but in my hand—and, please, nothing else whatever.’
She saw Mary stirring the fire under the kettle and wondered what Mr. Bradshaw would have to say if he knew she was preparing to drink tea in a tenement room. And with the servant he had dismissed. Yet she was such a civil, warm-hearted girl. And clean. Everything was clean. That was a sure sign of character, one she had always looked for when engaging.
She was handed a cup and saucer. She reached her spoon for sugar and then waited. Mary hesitated and said:
‘I beg your pardon—milk.’
She went to the sideboard. She seemed to have trouble finding what she wanted. Mrs. Bradshaw, sensing a crisis, watched. She saw her empty some from a baby’s bottle into a jug. Mrs. Bradshaw was shocked. Mary returned, smiling and said, ‘Here it is.’
Mrs. Bradshaw pretended not to have noticed. But she took as little as possible.
Mary took up a tin of condensed milk from the table and said: ‘I’d rather have this myself.’ She was apologetic.
‘Of course,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.
They drank tea in silence for some moments. At last Mrs. Bradshaw said:
‘You keep everything very nice, Mary.’
‘We haven’t much, indeed.’
‘You’ve two little children. Isn’t that a great deal?’
‘Yes’, Mary said. ‘Children are a blessing.’
‘Of course they are. Your husband is working with Morgan & Co. I do believe Mr. Yearling is a director. What’s your husband’s first name?’
‘Robert,’ Mary said, ‘he’s a shift worker.’
‘I see,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said. ‘I may find an opportunity to speak to Mr. Yearling about him—that’s why I ask.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ Mary said.
Mrs. Bradshaw left her cup down and said she really must go. Before going to the door she opened her purse and fumbled in it. She put a pound on the table. Mary was embarrassed.
‘Please, Mrs. Bradshaw—I couldn’t.’
‘There may be little expenses to meet tomorrow which neither Father O’Connor nor I will be able to attend to for you. Your husband must not be out of pocket.’
Mary held open the door for her. A group of children had gathered about the cab. Many of them, Mrs. Bradshaw remarked, were in rags. Most of them were barefooted. They cleared a passage for her and stared after the cab as it turned in a wide circle and departed. Mary, from her window, watched it go. She took the jug from the table and returned what remained of the milk to the child’s bottle. It was all the fresh milk she had. But there would be no shortage. The pound note on the table was almost a week’s wages. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed, telling her it was noon already and that Fitz would soon be returning. ‘And what is your husband’s first name?’ If Mrs. Bradshaw was interested, even a little bit, God knows what good might come of it.
The cab took them at a smart pace to the workhouse. The morning was bright again, but mild. Mary thought they might have a window open.
‘Just a little,’ she suggested to Fitz.
He unhooked the leather strap from its brass stud, eased the frame down and re-secured it. He was wearing his stiff collar and a tie. It made him look stouter, somehow, but very handsome, she thought. Pat, who was off work, had come with them for company. She was glad. The children of the neighbourhood had gathered about the cab when it called for them. It was less embarrassing to step into it when there were three of them. Pat, she thought, looked very neat too, with his serge suit and butterfly collar and bowler hat. It was such a pity he was a bit wild at times, because underneath he had a warm, kind nature. Mrs. Mulhall, who was minding the children, had waved goodbye from the window and for a moment it had felt like setting off on a day’s outing. But she reminded herself that it was to see the very last of poor Miss Gilchrist, who had been so kind to her when she had no Fitz and no children. It would be unseemly to treat it like an excursion.
At the mortuary chapel they stood for a little while beside the coffin to pray. Mrs. Bradshaw was in the grounds, but did not go into the mortuary. It was not the custom among well-to-do ladies. Father O’Connor came in, took his stole from his pocket, kissed it, placed it around his neck and prayed. He sprinkled holy water from a tiny bottle which he also carried. He acknowledged their presence with a nod, then rejoined Mrs. Bradshaw. They got into a coach together. When the hearse was ready both cabs followed it, slowly as far as the gates, more briskly as they began the journey across the city. In the second coach Pat offered Fitz a cigarette.
‘Where are we off to?’ he asked.
Fitz looked at Mary. She looked blankly back at him.
‘I never thought of asking,’ she confessed.
‘Glasnevin, probably,’ Pat decided.
‘We’ll soon know,’ Fitz said, unconcerned.
In a minute or so the cab driver confirmed their guess by turning left. They reached the quays and travelled towards the city centre. Men stopped to raise their hats as the hearse passed, women crossed themselves. People searching through the shelves outside second-hand bookshops turned to pay their respects. At the rattle of their wheels the gulls loitering along the river wall rose lazily with outstretching necks and glided down to the safety of the water.
‘It’s such a fine morning,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said, leaning forward for a moment to peer through the window.
‘It would be so unpleasant if it rained,’ Father O’Connor agreed.
‘I’d no idea how truly destitute most of your parishioners were. Even your poor clerk . . .’
‘The clerk of the church can hardly be described as destitute,’ Father O’Connor suggested. But politely. Mrs. Bradshaw’s idea of destitution and his own were bound to be different.
‘He seemed to me to be in rags,’ she answered.
Father O’Connor was puzzled.
‘When did you meet him?’
‘When I arrived yesterday morning he was ringing the bell—a bearded, very odd-looking poor creature.’
That was not the clerk. Father O’Connor wondered who it could have been. He remembered the boilerman.
‘It must have been Tierney, our boilerman.’ The discovery irritated him. What an impression to give a lady visitor.