CHAPTER THREE
Aloysius Hennessy, replete after a breakfast of fried bread and tea, counted the stairs as he descended lightheartedly from his room to the hallway and emerged from its darkness into warmth and sunlight. The bells of Sunday were sounding over the street, the time was wearing up to midday. At a distance ahead of him a figure hobbled in the same direction. The gait was unmistakable. Hennessy quickened his pace and caught up without difficulty.
‘Going to mass?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ Rashers said, ‘and damn nearly late, at that.’
‘Whereabouts?’ Hennessy asked.
‘The Pro-Cathedral, along with the Quality.’
‘So am I,’ Hennessy said, ‘I’ll walk along with you.’
‘After the week’s carry-on you’ll hardly want to take a tram, anyway,’ Rashers said. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘Things is looking up. I have a few weeks work with Cramptons above in the Park. Pushing an oul barrow here and there for them.’
‘That’s good,’ Rashers said. ‘I’m glad for the children’s sake. Are they well?’
‘All on the baker’s list,’ Hennessy said.
‘And yourself?’
‘Gameball,’ Hennessy said.
There was no enquiry about Mrs. Hennessy. Rashers had asked deliberately after them all in order to leave her out.
‘Have a cigarette,’ Hennessy offered, to show that they were still the best of friends.
They stopped to light up. The air was sultry, the sound of bells and mass-going traffic intermingled.
‘I like Sunday,’ Hennessy said, leaning on the railings to inhale his cigarette, ‘A man can take his legitimate rest.’
‘Come on,’ Rashers urged.
‘What’s your hurry?’
‘I’m bad enough without the addition of a mortal sin. We’ll be late for mass.’
They resumed, Hennessy, suiting his pace to Rashers, noticed how painfully slow it had become. He had money in his pocket and that made him want to step it out. The bowler on his head, though a bit too big, was a source of pride. He began to whistle.
Rashers, irritated, said:
‘Tie a bit of string around it—will you. You’re like a bloody canary this morning.’
‘It’s the bit of work,’ Hennessy apologised.
‘If you want to keep it, I advise you to give over the whistling. It’s unlucky in the morning. Whistle before your breakfast and you’ll cry before your supper.’
‘I had my breakfast,’ Hennessy said.
‘That’s more than I had,’ Rashers said.
Hennessy felt abashed. He was full himself and had not thought that Rashers might be hungry. He searched in his pockets and found a shilling.
‘Take that,’ he said.
Rashers stopped to examine the coin.
‘You’re a decent skin,’ he said, putting it in his pocket. ‘I’ll pay it back to you when the ship comes home.’
Hennessy waved this aside.
‘Time enough,’ he said.
But Rashers was moody. Ill fortune had been dogging him.
‘I always made plenty during Horse Show week,’ he explained, ‘but this time the tram strike ruined me. The gentry was too busy ducking bricks and jamjars to have ears for a bit of music.’
‘The commotion was terrible,’ Hennessy agreed.
‘It killed the trade,’ Rashers said.
They turned into D’Olier Street and met the first section of police.
‘The Larkin Reception Committee,’ Rashers said.
‘Do you think he’ll turn up?’
As Hennessy asked, the vista of the street opened to them. Rashers stood still. Sections of police were placed at intervals up its entire length, from the bridge to beyond Nelson’s Pillar. They had never seen so many policemen before.
‘If he comes down in a balloon,’ Rashers decided.
They made their way cautiously up the street. Others, on their way to twelve mass too, walked in front and behind them. There were the usual Sunday strollers, young men in their Sunday best, girls in their finery. The police were keeping them on the move, but otherwise there was no interference.
‘I’ll tell you this, though,’ Rashers added, when they had seen the full strength of the preparations. ‘If he does turn up there’ll be Holy Slaughter.’
As they joined the people who were thronging into mass, Hennessy fumbled and produced two pennies. He slipped one to Rashers.
‘You’ll want that for the collection plate,’ he whispered.
‘Thanks,’ Rashers said.
Hennessy removed his bowler, wiped it carefully with his sleeve and dropped his own penny on the plate. He entered ahead of Rashers, the bowler clasped piously against his chest. Rashers passed by the collection plate with an air of abstracted fervour and put the penny beside the shilling in his pocket.
After mass Hennessy wanted him to walk through Sackville Street again.
‘Not for a knighthood from the King himself,’ Rashers said.
‘I’d like to see if Larkin turns up,’ Hennessy said.
‘You’ve the full use of both your limbs. But poor oul Rashers would be a sitting target for any murderous bowsie of a Peeler.’
‘Ah—come on,’ Hennessy urged.
‘Go by yourself, with my blessing and full consent,’ Rashers said, ‘but Rashers is home by the back lanes.’
They parted. Hennessy adjusted the bowler and made his way back to Sackville Street. Others came with him. The crowd in the street was enlarged by the after-mass strollers. A cab driver who knew Hennessy reined in for some moments to pass the time of day.
‘You’re looking very spruce,’ he said.
‘I can return the compliment.’
‘Are you taking your constitutional?’
‘A bit of a ramble after mass to work up an appetite for the plate of pigs’ feet and cabbage.’
‘I’d ramble somewhere else,’ the cabman said, leaning down from his seat. ‘Do you see them stalwarts beyond?’
He meant the body of the Dublin Metropolitan Police drawn up in ranks outside the Metropole.
‘I’d want to be blind to miss them,’ Hennessy said, marvelling at their numbers.
‘Half of them bowsies is drunk,’ the cabman said. ‘I’ve passed six platoons of them already and the waft of bad whiskey from each made the oul nag stagger between the shafts. Do you know what some of them is up to?’
He leaned down even further and beckoned Hennessy nearer so that he could whisper in his ear.
‘Smoking,’ he said, ‘smoking on jooty. There’s a quare one.’
‘That’s shocking,’ Hennessy said.
‘Half of them hasn’t been in bed for three days and nights because of the riots. They’ve been bombarded from the windows with everything from flower boxes to chamber pots—full ones. The result is their nairves is gone. Every one of them is itching to get a belt back at someone—anyone. So I’d advise you to get out.’
One of the policemen had crossed over as they spoke. He rested his hand on the driver’s rail.
‘Are you going to anchor there for the day?’
‘A few words on a matter of business with my friend here,’ the cabman explained.
‘Take him with you or break it up,’ the policeman said, ‘you’re causing an obstruction.’
‘I’ve said what I want to say,’ the cabman answered, giving a jerk on the reins. As the cab moved away he turned and shouted back at Hennessy.
‘Have regard to what I was talking about,’ he advised.
Hennessy waved and moved on. The crowd had increased during their conversation. There was a small Larkinite element near the G.P.O. wearing the Red Hand union badge in their coats. Young couples promenaded as they always did on Sundays, looking in the shops and pausing to greet their friends. There were men swinging light canes and wearing buttonholes, the more respectable classes. Hennessy mingled with them. Near the Imperial Hotel a stranger said to him: