‘Tierney.’
The breathing continued, its rhythm uninterrupted. He picked his way gingerly down the remaining steps, struck a match and found a stump of candle. Beside it the earlier one had guttered to death. Its grease dribbles clung to the ledge and spread in knuckled streams down the side of the wall.
‘Tierney,’ Father O’Connor called again.
He held the candle above the sleeping figure and bent down. The sight horrified him. Rashers’ mouth had fallen open. The teeth in it were yellow and rose crookedly from the narrow gums. The empty whiskey bottle was in his right hand. He had been incontinent in his sleep. Father O’Connor recoiled from the strong smell of urine. He prodded Rashers with his foot.
‘Tierney,’ he called.
He was tempted to kick at the prostrate horror. Was the whole of Ireland possessed by Drink; had it become an unwashed wretch on a slag-heap, grasping an empty bottle by the neck? What right had any creature to spurn God’s gifts of mind and health in this way, to put out God’s sun—quench His stars and obliterate the lovely face of His Creation. Father O’Connor felt fury blazing in the arteries of neck and temple.
‘Tierney!’ he roared.
Rashers opened his eyes and identified his visitor.
‘It’s yourself, Father.’
‘Get on your feet.’
‘All in good time, Father.’
Rashers spoke soothingly. It was all very well to say get on your feet. It was another thing to have complete confidence in their ability to obey.
‘The furnace is out.’
‘Bloody end to it,’ Rashers said. Then he recollected himself and apologised.
‘Saving your presence, Father.’
‘You’re a drunken disgrace,’ Father O’Connor exploded at him. Rashers looked puzzled. He thought. He became conscious of the empty bottle about which his fingers were still curled.
‘A drop for my chest,’ he said.
‘A good deal more than a drop. The furnace has been out all day. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘First it was contrary with me. Then I went up to mass. Then I got a little turn. The chest . . .’
‘Do you buy and consume a bottle of whiskey every time you have trouble with your chest?’
‘I didn’t buy it.’
‘You stole it, then.’
Rashers made an effort and raised himself on one elbow. In the candlelight, with the black beard merging into the background of piled coke, he was little more than a pair of eyes. They were suddenly focused and scornful.
‘That’s a strange conclusion for a man of your cloth to jump to.’
‘Who gave it to you?’
Rashers, with both elbows under him now, found his full voice and shouted his anger: ‘Ask my arse.’
‘How dare you use obscenity in my presence!’
‘I never asked for your presence,’ Rashers yelled. ‘So bad cess to you and to hell with you and God’s curse on you for labelling me a robber. Now get to hell out of here.’
He scrabbled at the coke about him and flung a fistful in Father O’Connor’s direction. Father O’Connor dodged backwards. Some pieces hit the skirts of his soutane and fell harmlessly to the floor. The attack astounded him. He stood wordlessly, the candle held above his head. They faced each other with hatred. Rashers made a final effort and found his feet. He pulled his clothes down about him. He continued to hold the empty bottle by the neck.
‘Tomorrow,’ Father O’Connor said, controlling his voice, ‘the clerk will have whatever wages is due to you. You’re dismissed.’
‘Sacked?’ Rashers cocked his head at an angle.
‘That is what I have just said.’
Rashers brushed past him and mounted the steps. He took them slowly, controlling his limbs.
‘Then good riddance,’ he said, when he had reached the top. He went out into the courtyard and on into the street, still holding the empty bottle by the neck.
Father O’Connor retired to his room. He was deeply upset. The poverty of St. Brigid’s parish was bad; its ingratitude was appalling. His efforts to help the poor had led to assault and bad blood. A useless, crippled old man he had picked off the streets had flung his kindness back in his face. His parish priest was likely to take the side of the boilerman. He had done so before. It seemed to give pleasure to Father Giffley to humiliate him. If that was to happen again, then the sooner they had it out and over with the better.
Father Giffley was not in the room on the ground floor—a bad sign. Had he retired to his own room to drink himself stupid? If so, that too would have to be faced. Father O’Connor climbed the stairs again. He knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’
The fire was piled high in the way that Father Giffley liked. It added its own light to that of the buzzing gas mantle. The bookcase in the corner gleamed orange and red where the wood and the glass reflected its glow. Father Giffley was seated in a deep armchair. A tumbler with whiskey stood near him.
‘Am I disturbing you, Father?’
‘Please close the door. I am just beginning to feel warm again.’
Father O’Connor did so.
‘That is what I came to see you about. I found the furnace completely out.’
‘Did you find the boilerman? That’s the essential thing.’
‘He was lying on a pile of coke—asleep.’
‘Asleep?’
Father O’Connor decided to call a spade a spade.
‘He was dead drunk.’
The other, about to raise the tumbler to his lips, replaced it. The eyes examined Father O’Connor closely, noting his agitation, interpreting it.
‘And where is he now?’
Father O’Connor steeled himself.
‘I dismissed him. That’s what I came to tell you.’
Father Giffley continued to regard him closely. He spoke very calmly.
‘And why do you come to me?’
‘On a previous occasion you reproached me for not having done so.’
‘It appears you didn’t on this occasion either.’
‘I acted on impulse. The furnace was out. The man was lying on the coke heap. He had been . . .’
It would be indelicate to refer to that—the smell of urine, the unwashed smell.
‘His language was obscene and he threw things at me.’
Father Giffley gave some moments of consideration to that. At last he said: ‘Do your respectable friends never drink?’
‘In moderation . . .’
‘Always?’
The emphasis on the word communicated his disbelief. He looked sadly at the tumbler in his hand.
‘If you found your parish priest drunk would you try to have him sacked?’
‘Please, Father . . .’
‘Why don’t you answer?’
‘There is no answer. You are complicating something that is quite simple. The boilerman was drunk. He neglected his duty. He . . .’
‘Complications? Is there one law for Kingstown and another for the clergy and another for the boilerman?’
Father O’Connor did not answer.
‘Well?’
It was no use answering. Any attempt of his would be twisted by the other to suit his purpose. His parish priest hated him. It was, he could only hope, part of the man’s mental sickness.
‘This morning I listened to you speaking about the Larkinites. You were quite wrong—as usual. The reformers have a better case than we have. They are trying to destroy this dung-heap. I wish I had the strength of will to help them.’
‘That is not the generally accepted view.’
‘No. Yet one day, when they have succeeded in spite of us, it will be.’
It was a surprising speech and Father O’Connor had nothing to say about it. He wondered what bearing it could have on the boilerman.
‘Have I done wrong in sacking the boilerman?’