‘I am honoured,’ Father O’Connor said with sincerity. Then, groping to phrase the question delicately, he asked:
‘Would it have been so difficult, to meet her wishes—to give up . . . ?’
‘I had an instinct about that,’ Yearling said, ‘and the years have proved me right. For me, memories and alcohol are necessary defences. This is a dunghill of a world.’
It was a surprising sentiment from Yearling, who so seldom betrayed pessimism.
‘Perhaps if you had married this girl,’ Father O’Connor suggested gently, ‘the defences would be unnecessary. You would have had her companionship.’
‘There is no such thing as companionship,’ Yearling said, ‘when it comes to coping with the melancholy intimations of Anno Domini.’
His voice had the familiar note of self-mockery, and, as he spoke, he put his arm companionably about Father O’Connor’s shoulder. As they turned to re-enter the room the waiter approached.
‘Father O’Connor?’ he enquired.
Father O’Connor nodded.
‘A telephone call.’ The waiter led the way.
It was Bradshaw. He was very agitated. There was uproar in the streets about the theatre, he said, and it would be quite impossible to risk travelling to the Imperial. The cabman had advised strongly against it. They would have to be excused.
‘Of course,’ Father O’Connor said. ‘I hope Mrs. Bradshaw is not too upset.’
‘Please explain to Yearling.’
‘He is here beside me.’
Father O’Connor handed the earpiece to Yearling, who shouted: ‘You missed a grandstand seat.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘At the riots.’
‘I am entirely surrounded by rioters,’ Bradshaw shouted back, ‘blackguards and hooligans who are looting and destroying. I daren’t risk bringing Mrs. Bradshaw across.’
‘Of course not,’ Yearling agreed.
‘Where are the military?—that’s what I’d like to ask Asquith,’ Bradshaw added. He sounded outraged, as though it had all been arranged for his sole inconvenience. Then he repeated that he was sorry to disappoint them.
‘Don’t worry about that. We had quite a pleasant evening. Do you remember the horse tram?’
‘The what?’
‘The horse tram. Do you remember the time I stole the horse tram. You refused to come with me.’
‘I am not interested in damned horse trams at the moment. I am entirely occupied with the problem of getting Florence and myself home in safety.’
‘Sorry,’ Yearling explained. ‘I’ve been thinking about it on and off all evening. Well—safe journey.’
‘And to you. Wish the same to Father O’Connor.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Yearling assured him.
Bradshaw rang off. His wife, who had heard only one side of the conversation was curious.
‘What did he say?’ she asked.
‘I think it typical of Yearling,’ Bradshaw complained. ‘I tell him the city is in the throes of a revolution and he asks me if I remember the time he stole a horse tram.’
‘What horse tram?’ Mrs. Bradshaw asked. Bradshaw went purple.
‘Damn it, Florence,’ he exploded, ‘you are every bit as bad as he is.’
Pat found himself after an unreckonable time at the door of Lily’s house. At first the rioting stopped him from crossing to the south side of the city. He wandered northwards instead, dazed and without any particular goal. His horse and cart had disappeared altogether, the blood had caked hard on his collar. At some point he took off his scarf and wound it tightly about his head, hoping in that way to stop the flow of blood. He was weak, his wound throbbed, but for most of his journey he felt light and happy. The streets he passed gave him the idea that he was calling on Lily to take her somewhere, to a music-hall, or to the Park—he could not quite remember where. He would apologise for the blood and dirt on his clothes. She would understand. Lily nearly always understood. Yet when he reached her door he stood for a long time, undecided whether he should knock or go away again. The feeling of lightness and happiness left him. There was something wrong. She was not expecting him. He was not dressed to take her out. He had forgotten his money. He should be back at Nolan & Keyes, to unyoke and stable his horse, to collect and sort his delivery dockets for the next day. He leaned his back against the door and began to think it out.
The street was dark and untrafficked, the air soothing and warm. A cat, methodically investigating the line of refuse bins, took a long time to approach and pass him. It moved with great stealth, a furry silence, strangely soothing to watch. When it had gone he made up his mind and knocked on the door.
At first Lily thought he had been drinking. She warned him to be quiet and led him into the parlour.
‘Give me a match,’ she said.
She lit the gas and turned to take stock of him.
‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘you’re destroyed!’
At her words his hands went automatically to the scarf on his head.
‘You’ve been in a fight. Was it a policeman?’
‘Not a policeman, Lily. It happened down the city.’ He looked around.
She took his arm and said: ‘Sit here—you look terrible.’
He began to tell her what had happened. The throbbing made it difficult. She undid the scarf as he spoke and gently lifted the matted hair away from the wound. It was long and jagged. Blood oozed very slowly from it.
‘Come down to the kitchen, I’ll wash and dress it for you.’
‘Where’s the household?’
‘The landlady is in bed. I’ll have to tell her you’re here.’
‘Give me ten minutes. Then I’ll go.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Lily said, ‘you can’t go travelling home with that.’
She cleaned the wound and washed the blood from his neck. For the hundredth time he noted how small and delicate her hands were. They were the hands he had always loved. They soothed more than the mere physical pain. Because they were Lily’s hands he closed his eyes, the hurt that had nothing to do with bottles and broken flesh dying away under their compassionate movements.
‘I’m only getting you into trouble,’ he said.
‘I’ll go up and explain to her. She can’t turn you out the way you are. Wait here.’
Lily was gone a long time. When she came back she had a couple of blankets on her arm. She led him into the parlour again.
‘She says you can sleep here.’
Lily arranged the blankets about him and settled cushions under his head.
‘Now I’ll make tea.’
‘Lily . . .’ he began.