‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We’re going to put a stop to all this immediately,’ Bullman explained. ‘No more Larkinism and no more broken contracts. I’ve reported to the Board on the meeting of the Employers’ Federation. They’ve agreed to a man to support the proposal.’
‘What proposal?’
‘The proposal of the Federation to outlaw Larkinism. We are issuing this tomorrow. Four hundred other employers are pledged to take the same action.’ He took the top copy of a form from a bundle on his desk and handed it to Yearling.
‘All employees must sign it—whether they belong to Larkin’s union or not.’
Yearling took the form and read it. It ran:
‘I Hereby Undertake to carry out all instructions given to me by or on behalf of my employers, and, further, I agree to immediately resign my membership of the Irish Transport and General Workers’ Union (if a member); and I further undertake that I will not join or in any way support this Union.
Signed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Address . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Witness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Date . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
He handed it back and said:
‘Who drafted this?’
‘Our chairman—William Martin Murphy.’
The undubbed knight was moving openly at last.
‘Suppose they refuse to sign?’ Yearling suggested.
‘That’s what we hope they’ll do,’ Bullman said ‘When the Larkinites refuse we’ll get rid of them.’
‘But you’re giving this to both Larkinites and non-Larkinites,’ Yearling said. ‘Suppose the non-Larkinites refuse to sign also?’
‘That’s unlikely,’ Bullman said. ‘Why should they fight Larkin’s battles for him?’
‘Why do they take sympathetic action and why do they refuse to handle goods they regard as tainted?’ Yearling pointed out.
‘Are you against the proposal?’
‘Isn’t it indiscriminate?’
‘Why didn’t you attend the meeting?’ Bullman asked irritably.
‘Fate,’ Yearling said. ‘I seem to miss the few important occasions.’
‘You’d have been in a minority of one,’ Bullman assured him.
‘Possibly. But I would have frightened them.’
‘I doubt it.’
Yearling recovered his hat from his brother-in-law’s desk.
‘You yourself would have been the hardest nut to crack,’ he said, ‘and you are frightened already.’
Rashers lit the candle and lay down between the rags he had accumulated during his long occupation of the basement of Chandlers Court. The dog stretched itself at his feet, the candle cast familiar shadows, all was as usual in his cellar below the city. In the street above him the day was still waning, although the hour was almost eleven. The weather of August was being kind that year, the light reluctant to quit the sky. But the cardboard in the window kept out what was left of it, making the candle a necessary expense.
Rashers drank water from a jamjar and chewed some dry bread from the rusted biscuit tin at his bedside. He was tired from tramping the streets and he was afraid of what might happen. The police were carrying out raids on the tenements, smashing furniture, breaking delph, beating up the inhabitants. They were wreaking a savage revenge on those who had ambushed them continuously from the windows of dark streets. Every tenement was an enemy now, a fortress furnished with bricks and bolts and chamber pots. It was unlikely they would visit a basement, but the stories he had heard were not reassuring. The police were angry. They were determined to spread terror wherever they could.
‘A gang of bowsies,’ Rashers said to the dog.
At the sound of his voice it stood up. It watched him as he ate, its eyes begging for its share. If they came Rusty would protect him. If he heard their feet coming down the stairs he would whisper, ‘Get them, Rusty.’ The barking was a protection in itself. But if they were too incensed or too drunk to be put off by that, then let them break in the door and face the music. Rusty would take them all on. Without hesitating to make a count of the helmets.
He called the dog to him and said: ‘Here, Rusty,’ and shared his bread with his bodyguard. The dog gulped it down and then licked his hand.
‘No more, Rusty,’ he said sadly. The biscuit tin was empty.
The poorer streets were keeping a wary eye on the possibility of disturbances. In the more respectable areas his rags marked him out as a representative of the hooligan element. People closed their doors on him or turned aside from him. He had thought of writing a ballad about the arrest of Larkin, but the words refused to come. The pockets he’d compose for were now likely to be as empty as his own.
‘What’ll you and me do if it becomes a general thing, Rusty?’ he asked.
If job after job is closed, and beggar after beggar invaded the streets, until the city became a vast hunting ground of unemployed?
‘So far as you and me is concerned,’ he said to the dog, ‘God never shut one door but He closed another.’
He lay back and tried to be calm about the threat of the dark hours and the uncertainty of the days that were coming.
‘Go to bed, Rusty,’ he ordered.
Once again the dog stretched himself at his feet. Rashers blew out the candle.
The bundle of forms was taken from Mr. Bullman’s desk for distribution. On the appointed day he waited, with anxiety, for their return. None came. He addressed enquiries of a discreet nature through the hierarchy of control. The answer was that his workers, Larkinites and non-Larkinites alike, were refusing to sign. He held council again with his Board. They decided to be resolute. The next day instructions were given to reduce the furnaces gradually and to set up slow fires. The men refused the instruction. Bullman, knowing that his supervisory staff could do this much for him, took the necessary steps.
In the morning Fitz entered as usual through the office and signed his name in the book left there for foremen. When he reached No. 1 furnace house the night shift was leaving. No one came to replace them. After half an hour or so he left and went across the works yard. He found the main gates closed. He heard the voices of men outside and let himself out through the gateman’s hut. A large poster on the gate declared a lock-out. Work would be available only for those who reported first to the office to sign the Federation form. No one went to the office. They stood about for a while or slipped in by the side gate to collect some personal belongings from the company’s lockers. They returned after a brief interval carrying teapots or cracked cups or overalls and working shirts bundled all together. Then they drifted away. Fitz, returning to No. 1 House to check if anything remained to be seen to, found Carrington waiting for him.
‘Do you think they’ll change their minds?’ Carrington asked.
‘Hardly,’ Fitz said.
He surveyed the empty house. The line of furnaces, charged by the night workers before they left, glowed dimly down its length. The silence was oppressive.
‘We’ve to bank down all the fires,’ Carrington said. ‘You’ll know what’s to be done. Take the heats down slowly. We’ll have to do that over two or three days or the brickwork may crack. The office staff will be down in an hour or two to give a hand.’
‘You’ll need more than the office staff.’
‘Some of the workers will come back to sign,’ Carrington said. ‘We’ll put them at it. Then we’ll recruit casual labour.’
‘If you do that,’ Fitz said, ‘there’ll be serious trouble.’
‘The police will give protection. We can’t let the bloody plant get damaged. That wouldn’t be in anyone’s interest. Your job will be to direct operations in here. You’ll have a crowd of clerks working under you and they won’t know what they’re supposed to be about. You’ll have to keep a sharp eye on them.’