‘It is a wet morning, my dear brethren, you have risen early to fulfil your duty to God, I will not detain you now by speaking at length on this subject. I only ask you to keep it in mind for what it is—an insult to God and an insult to those who were ordained to preach His gospel. When next these men urge you to extreme courses, when they try to win your support and your confidence, when they declare—as they have done—that they respect religion and seek only the order that is God’s—when they do this recall the incident I have referred to, and the many others that have occurred throughout our city. You will know then where they really stand. You will be able to see that for all their fair words and protestations of concern for poverty and hunger, they are enemies of God and of His Church. In that way you will keep to Truth. And you will ensure that no more unfortunate victims will suffer physical assault at the hands of God’s enemies.’
That seemed to be enough. Father O’Connor allowed his eyes to rest steadily on the upturned faces for some seconds. Then he signed himself very deliberately, saying again: ‘In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’
They answered ‘Amen’.
Rashers got up to leave as Father O’Connor did. The cough phlegm in his throat thickened and refused to be dislodged. He struggled so hard for breath that he almost fell. A neighbour grasped him by the shoulders and led him outside. Rashers nodded his thanks, then leaned against the arch of the porch on his own. The rain clung to his unkempt beard but the air was cool and moist and easier to breathe. He gulped at it until he felt its cold bulk on his lungs. He rested, coaxing his heart to find a slow, regular beat. Soon mass would be over, the people would come crowding about him. They would look at him, some of them with pity. That was something he never sought and did not like. If he had a drop of whiskey it might do the trick, straighten him out for the job of stoking the furnace which he had been unable to tackle early that morning. As the first trickle of the congregation began to move about him, he stirred himself and decided that he must ask the housekeeper. She was a kind enough woman.
He managed to get as far as the basement door. While she was opening it another spasm seized him. She found him doubled up and breathless. He stopped, his eyes streaming, unable to ask her. She took his arm and led him into the kitchen. It was spick and span. The red gleam of the fire behind the range reminded him that the furnace would go out if he did not get well quickly enough to attend to it. As it was, the pipes were almost cold. He made a tremendous effort.
‘For the love of God, woman, spare me a thimble of whiskey.’
‘Sit down,’ she said, helping him. He looked about him and recognised the press it was usually kept in. He saw her opening it. When she came back she poured him a stiff measure. He took it slowly, coughing and spluttering over it at first, but becoming easier after a while, until at last he felt he could talk to her.
‘God reward you,’ he offered.
‘I’ll give you a cup of tea.’
‘No, no. The whiskey did the trick. It always does.’
‘The tea will cap it,’ she said.
She prepared it and with it he took some bread and butter. He felt warmer and better after it. Drowsy, too. He had slept very brokenly the night before.
‘I’ll go now and attend the furnace.’
‘You’re a man that shouldn’t be out at all,’ she warned him. Even now his face was a deadly colour. She wondered should she tell Father Giffley.
‘If Rashers stays out, the furnace is out too.’
‘What matter about the furnace.’
‘Am I to let it out and lose my job.’
‘You’re in no condition to be abroad.’
‘It’s only a little turn,’ Rashers said. ‘I’m right as rain now.’
He got up with difficulty and went to the door. It was a pity to have to leave the warm, dry air of the kitchen. It would have been good to curl up and sleep on its flagged floor. He had slept on less comfortable beds.
‘Wait now,’ she called to him.
She put the cork back in the bottle, which was still almost half full of whiskey, and gave it to him.
‘Put it under your coat,’ she warned him.
He looked at it doubtfully.
‘They’ll surely miss it.’
‘Divil the miss.’
‘You’re a good-hearted woman.’
‘I’ll not have your death on my conscience, and that will be the story if you don’t watch yourself.’
Rashers held up the bottle and measured it with his eye.
‘If I die it’ll be of free drink,’ he said. It was an effort. He did not feel in the mood to joke.
The rain had found its way under the broken door and down the first two steps of the boiler house. Beyond that it was dry and dark. He groped for the candle butt, lit it and opened the furnace gate. A thick white ash was all that remained of the coke-dressing, he had spread the previous night. He raked it gently, bringing the live coke to the surface. He threw a shovel full of fresh coke to the back of the furnace. The white ash, disturbed, burst upwards in a dense cloud and flowed into the furnace room. In the light of the candle, against the background darkness, countless white particles began to dance and jostle. Rashers breathed deeply as he lifted the shovel a second time. The dust caught him at the back of the throat and the muscles of his chest convulsed. He threw the spade aside, knelt suddenly on the coke and began another fight for air that seemed endless and doomed to defeat. But it passed. He lay down trembling. There was sweat on his face and under his clothes. Everything had withdrawn to a great distance. The candle flame was a luminous petal which shed no light at all. He remembered the whiskey and drank. The cork fell when he fumbled as he tried to replace it. He drank again, a long slug, for comfort this time, not for medicine. It felt better. With his eyes closed and lying still, it was possible to think a little. If it was Edward VII he would be surrounded by doctors. It did no good, in the heel of the hunt. Maybe a high-up like him wouldn’t chance a drop of whiskey. Champagne or a high-class foreign wine. That was their dish. Rashers slugged again at the bottle and burrowed deeper into the coke stack. Drowsiness crept over him, a murmur in his ears and in his limbs. He dozed while the furnace shared the misfortune of many another in St. Brigid’s and starved to death.
The church suffered. At afternoon devotions, during the recitation of the rosary, the cold and damp penetrated Father Giffley to the bone. On his way into the vestry he touched the pipes with his hand and confirmed his suspicions. In the house he summoned Father O’Connor.
‘Have we a boilerman?’
‘Of course.’
‘The heating system contradicts it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The church is like an icebox.’
‘I’ll see what is wrong.’
‘You should have done that four or five hours ago.’
Father Giffley went to the press, groped in it and took out a bottle. He half filled a glass.
‘I’m petrified,’ he grumbled.
Father O’Connor, with sinking heart, saw him take it over to the fireside chair where he swallowed most of it with the first mouthful.
‘I’ll find out what has happened,’ he promised.
The courtyard was dark and rain was still falling. He turned up his collar. The image of Father Giffley raising the yellow liquid and swallowing remained vividly with him. It had been so long since that had happened. Was it about to start again: the whiskey after breakfast, the inflamed afternoon face, the sickly and perpetual odour of peppermints? There would come a time when Father Giffley’s weakness could no longer be ignored.
He reached the boiler house and pushed in the broken door. It was pitch dark. Stale coke fumes hung unpleasantly in the cold air. The sound of heavy breathing came from the darkness. It startled him. He called out.