He told his wife about it that night as they sat over supper in his cottage by the railway line. She agreed that it might have been a mistake. They worried about it together, listening to the occasional thundering of trains that passed by their back garden, where the now weathered statue watched with joined hands and the surrounding railings creaked in the rigours of wind and winter.
The news reached Mulhall and from him it went to Fitz.
‘I’m going to see this Father O’Connor,’ Mulhall decided. Fitz thought that unwise.
‘What does it matter?’ he said.
But Mulhall had made up his mind.
‘I’ll deal with Keever too,’ he said.
‘O’Connor will fling you out.’
‘Let him try,’ Mulhall said.
Mulhall was a big man with iron-grey hair and a sure way of walking that inspired confidence in those who worked with him. He liked the new movement well. It was direct and simple. Demand, refusal, strike. He worked for Doggett & Co. under constant threat of dismissal. One slip and he was out of his job, with little hope of being jobbed elsewhere. He was well known as a troublemaker. In the eyes of Doggett he thrived on trouble. Where others bent, Mulhall bloomed. The shoulders straightened, the chest stuck out, the face settled into firm lines of confidence and composure. His demands were conveyed simply—to the yard foreman, to the superintendent, even to Doggett himself.
‘No work after four o’clock on Saturdays, Mr. Doggett.’
‘You’ll work when you’re told, Mulhall.’
‘Mr. Larkin wrote to you. Why didn’t you answer him?’
‘I don’t have to reply to Mr. Larkin.’
‘That’s gameball. We don’t have to work after four on Saturdays either.’
‘I’ll get rid of you, Mulhall, if this nonsense continues.’
‘Right. I’ll let the men know.’
‘You’ll let them know what?’
‘That you’re getting rid of me.’
‘That’s enough. You’ll hear more about this.’
But Mulhall remained in his job. Doggett knew better. Strike fever had hit the city. One ended, another began. It was better to settle up. For the moment. Later on the cure for the epidemic would be found. Already more powerful and more resourceful minds were at work on the problem.
Father O’Connor received Mulhall in the visitors’ room and began the interview at a disadvantage. He had expected one of the usual enquiries; an appeal for spiritual advice, a request for help. It took him some time to grasp that this huge, rough-looking working man was taking him to task. It was quite an incredible situation. He tried at first not to look at it that way.
‘You have some objection to our distributing relief?’
His voice was controlled.
‘We’ve an objection to Timothy Keever.’
‘You have . . . ? May I ask why?’
‘He goes about making fish of one and flesh of another.’
‘In what way?’
‘Asking women if their husbands are on strike and telling them they’ll get nothing if they are.’
‘Those are my instructions.’
‘If they are they’re no instructions for a priest to give.’
‘You are being insolent now.’ The tone had changed.
‘Mr. Doggett’s fond of saying that too.’
‘Mr. Doggett?’
‘The boss. He locked us out twice in the past twelve months. We gave him his bellyfull.’
‘You keep saying “we”. Who are “we”?’
‘Myself, the other carters, Jim Larkin.’
So it had come into the room to him. All that he had read, all that he had heard from the platform when on impulse he had followed the procession, was standing in the room with him. He should have recognised it earlier.
‘If you follow Mr. Larkin, you have no business coming to me.’
‘I’m a Catholic. I don’t want to be made ashamed of my Church.’
The voice had grown angry. Father O’Connor’s first impulse was to order the man to go. He changed his mind. He had learned that he was unable to do such things without losing dignity. He could never impress or terrify as Father Giffley could.
‘You are the one who should be ashamed,’ Father O’Connor said. ‘You are turning your back on the Church to follow her enemies.’
‘I thought the Church should be on the side of the poor.’
This was no ordinary workman.
‘And so we are,’ Father O’Connor said, gently.
‘You couldn’t be. You backed Mr. Doggett. You back the landlords. You told Timothy Keever to see that anyone on strike was left to stew.’
‘Socialism is an evil doctrine and Mr. Larkin is one of its propagandists. It attacks property and the Church Herself. If you are a Catholic you should do what the Church tells you. You must trust the wisdom of your priests.’
‘In their proper sphere, Father.’
Father O’Connor recognised the phrase. It came from the platforms. This illiterate man was beginning to consider himself competent to determine the sphere of the Church’s influence, to place bounds to the radiation of a wisdom that was nineteen centuries old. How could he explain the arrogance of that?
‘You are misled and I am sorry for you. Now I must ask you to leave.’
The man went quietly, too quietly. He closed the door behind him without another word. Father O’Connor remained in the visitors’ room for some time. The bishop had spoken out clearly about this new movement. Priests all over the city had preached on its evils. There could be no misunderstanding. But something was going wrong. Humble people were no longer listening. Were they beginning to believe the Reformers, to think that a world without God could be turned into an Utopia? He took out his pocket book and wrote carefully: ‘What shall it profit a man if, gaining the whole world, he suffereth the loss of his own soul.’ He would use it as the text for a future sermon.
It was raining. Cabs and occasional motor cars splashed through muddy streets. The gas-lamps steamed lightly. Mulhall pulled his cap down on his forehead and turned up the collar of his jacket. He felt warm inside him, in spite of the chill of the rain. It was the battle glow. It showed in the line of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. He was the father of the old women who passed him with shawls drawn tight over their heads. He was brother to the old men who sheltered against public house fronts and waited, hopefully, for someone who would bring them in for a drink and maybe a smoke. He was God, and the small boy who passed pushing a battered pram was his creature. Rain had plastered the boy’s hair about his face and the pram was piled with rain-soaked firewood. It was his creature and all his creatures were wet, cold, hungry, barefooted.
They would change that. Not by talk though. Do something. Keep on all the time doing something. Even if it led to trouble. Trouble attracted attention. People you wanted to rouse always took an interest when you did something. There were ways of dealing with Keever. Put the fear of God into others who might feel like following his example.
Mulhall went in for a drink. He wanted to think and he wanted to consult the clock. It was nearly half past eight. He said to the curate: ‘Your clock right?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘I’ll have a half of malt,’ he decided.
He was in Keever’s district. A turn off the main street and he would be among the warren of cottages that ended with their backs against the railway line. The trouble was, he was not quite sure of the address. The curate, bringing the whiskey, remarked: ‘That’s a bit of a sprinkle.’
Mulhall looked round at the long windows. Rain was beating against them.
‘A good night,’ he said, ‘for ducks.’
‘Keeps the customers indoors.’
Keever was likely to be at home. It would be worth trying.
‘Do you know Timothy Keever? He works for Nolan & Keyes?’