‘That was a wathery one,’ he added, as the spit continued to sizzle among the protesting coals.
‘You nearly put the bloody thing out,’ Hennessy reproved.
‘I can’t abide amateurs,’ Rashers said.
‘There’s some band competition on,’ Hennessy explained, ‘and he’s been practising for weeks. I used to hear him as I came in and out. He was talking to me about it.’
‘I know,’ Rashers said, ‘going over and over a couple of scraps of tunes, with music stuck up in front of him in case he’d forget. I never had to do that.’
‘You have the head for it,’ Hennessy flattered, ‘a memory plus a natural aptitude.’
‘That’s what you need,’ Rashers agreed, ‘that’s the difference between the amateur and the professional. The amateur has to have his music—but the professional plays by ear. Supposing, every time I went to play at a race meeting, I had to stick a music stand up in front of me, what’d happen?’
Hennessy smiled. ‘The crowd would get a right laugh out of you.’
‘They’d knock the whole shooting gallery over every time they rushed to the rails.’
‘Can you read music yourself?’ Hennessy asked.
‘I don’t have to read music,’ Rashers said, ‘isn’t that my point?’
‘What I mean is—did you ever learn how to read music?’
Rashers felt he was being pinned down.
‘In a class of a way,’ he evaded.
‘Who learned you?’ Hennessy persisted.
‘How do you mean—who learned me?’
‘Who was your teacher?’
‘I taught myself.’
Hennessy rooted from pocket to pocket until he found a collection of cigarette butts. He offered one to Rashers, who made a paper spill and inserted it into one of the holes in the bucket. The butt was so small that Rashers had difficulty trying to light it. He growled suddenly and slapped at his beard.
‘Jaysus,’ he said, ‘I’m in flames!’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Me beard went on fire.’
Hennessy frowned, wrinkled his nose and sniffed.
‘It did,’ he said, ‘I can smell it.’ He took the butt from Rashers, lit it and handed it back to him.
‘It’s a complicated thing—music,’ he pursued, when Rashers had drawn a few pulls without any further accident. ‘Willie Mulhall was trying to explain it to me. He says there’s seven notes, called A.B.C.D.E.F.G.’
‘There is’ Rashers said, ‘and a hell of a lot more. What about H.I.J.K.L.M.N. and all those?’
‘He didn’t mention those ones at all,’ Hennessy said.
‘Of course he didn’t mention them,’ Rashers said, ‘because he doesn’t know them. Them amateur bands never teaches them further than G. But a professional like myself wouldn’t get very far with seven notes. Wait till I show you.’
He took the Superior Toned Italian Flageolet from his pocket, blew through it to clear it of fluff, and he played a chromatic scale in two octaves.
‘How many notes was that?’ he asked when he had finished.
‘I didn’t count them,’ Hennessy confessed, ‘but it was nearer twenty-seven than seven.’
‘And that’s without the help of a bandsman’s hat,’ Rashers boasted.
‘Natural aptitude,’ Hennessy repeated, convinced. His admiration was genuine. He thought it a perfect example of the Divine principle of Compensation. Rashers had been afflicted with a bad arm and a bad leg, but God had thrown in the gift of music as a make-measure.
‘Play us something,’ he invited. Rashers shook his head in refusal, but almost immediately changed his mind. He fingered a few notes thoughtfully, then he began a long, slow improvisation, decorating the air with frequent shakes and trills. Hennessy, staring into the brazier, thought it sounded very sad. The wind was driving the rain once again against the cardboard in the window. He could feel the cold of it on his back, although the fire was hot on his face and hands. There was no fire in his own flat upstairs, but the children had gone out to search for cinders and sticks and in due course, he hoped, would come back with something. Winter was a bad time always. For a whole week now he had searched for odd jobs but without success. In another week perhaps, when the Christmas spirit began to stir in the hearts of those who had the giving of it, there would be something. Christmas usually brought him a bit of luck.
The basement was in semi-darkness, partly because cardboard occupied such a large part of the window, partly because of the rainy skies.
‘That was very nice,’ he said when Rashers had finished. ‘What’s it called?’
‘It’s not called anything, because I was making it up as I went along,’ Rashers said.
‘Composing?’
‘Following my own thoughts,’ Rashers qualified. Then he said:
‘What’s young Mulhall doing when he’s not suffering from musical delusions?’
‘He works as a messenger boy in the despatch department of the Independent Newspapers.’
‘Hairy oul messenger boy,’ Rashers said.
‘I expect he’ll get the push one of these days. They have to at a certain age.’
‘He won’t knock a living out of music anyway,’ Rashers said. But almost immediately he felt he was being over-severe. He gave a great sigh.
‘What is he, when all’s said and done, only a boy. It’s all before him.’
Hennessy approved the change to tolerance.
‘Live and let live,’ he said.
‘You’re right,’ Rashers said. Then he repeated it. ‘You’re right.’
Unanimity reigned. There was no use in rancour, they both now felt. Be patient. Endure. Willie Mulhall was only a little less advanced on the road to infirmity and loneliness and God knows what tribulation.
‘Play something else,’ Hennessy prompted.
Rashers, after an interval of thought, complied, resuming the meandering air with its trills and turns while Hennessy, staring into the red coals, let his mind wander. They had sat like this on another occasion, in the boiler room under St. Brigid’s Church, he recollected, drinking port and eating turkey and ham. That was around the Christmas time too. No, after it, he now remembered. Rashers was misfortunate to lose a good job like that. He had thought of going to the parish priest and applying for it himself, but as he considered it, it began to seem a traitorous sort of thing to do. Rashers, rightly or wrongly, felt he had been dealt with harshly. It would be disloyal to offer to work in his place. But Rashers was a stubborn and bitter oul oddity too, refusing to chance the effect of an apology, refusing even to go to St. Brigid’s for mass. They said the parish priest was kindly enough, although a bit abrupt. He could have gone to him. But no. Pride.
It would have been nice to walk in through the door and say: I’ve landed a steady, respectable job. Seasonable, but steady while it’s there. With the clergy. That would impress. The clergy. As boilerman. St Brigid’s. She would respect him then . . . as she used. You could make a career out of a job like that if you minded it. Aloysius Hennessy, Boilerman to St. Brigid’s.
‘A nice morning, Mr. Hennessy.’
‘A lovely morning, ma’am, thanks be to God.’ And then, when he had passed, but was not quite out of earshot: ‘Who’s that, Alice?’
‘Who?’
‘The man in the overalls you just said hello to?’
‘Oh, that’s Aloysius Hennessy, the boilerman from the church.’
The charcoal had grown so hot that the sides of the bucket glowed with a pinkish colour. He turned up his collar against the draught at his back. Firelight and meandering music interweaving in the half-light drew him dreaming into their labyrinth. He heard her voice remotely. He heard it a number of times before he realised with a shock she was in the room beside him.
‘So this is where you are.’