A tapping at the door roused her. She realised that someone was calling her.
‘Mrs. Fitzpatrick, are you within?’
She recognised the voice and for a moment hesitated. Then she called, reluctantly.
‘Come in—Mrs. Hennessy.’
The woman opened the door and poked her head around it, peering into the gloom.
‘Your husband is out?’
‘He is,’ Mary said.
Mrs. Hennessy, entering the room, let the shawl down from her head and settled it in folds about her shoulders.
‘Them oul stairs has me killed,’ she said conversationally. She was small and thin, with dark hair that was greying and a drawn yellow face. Her eyes, inquisitive and watchful, challenged the world to do its worst.
‘Can I help you?’ Mary said, waiting for the customary flow to start.
Mrs. Hennessy produced a jug from beneath her shawl.
‘I was wondering if I could borrow the loan of a sup of fresh milk for the baby,’ she said, ‘she’s too young for the condensed.’
Mary went to the press.
‘Wait till I tell you what happened,’ Mrs. Hennessy said. ‘There was a terrible commotion some hours back. Some bowsie put a brick through the window of Kerrigan’s dairy and there’s not a sup to be had there. Only for that I wouldn’t trouble you at all.’
Mary poured milk into the jug. Mrs. Hennessy, watching the operation closely, said: ‘The blessings of God on you.’ Then, as a quick afterthought, added: ‘You might lend me the loan of a cupful of sugar as well.’
Mary took the cracked cup which also appeared from under the shawl and filled it with sugar.
‘You’re far too generous,’ Mrs. Hennessy said, ‘and you’ll have it all back as soon as the tide turns.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Mary said, ‘don’t think of it.’ The quick and inquisitive eyes were taking in the room.
‘Did you hear what the police is up to?’
‘I did, indeed,’ Mary said.
‘Depredation and damage—that’s their programme now,’ Mrs. Hennessy said. ‘They’re breaking into the houses and smashing things and manhandling defenceless women and children. I know several this night that hasn’t a stick of furniture left whole—everything the poor souls ever had smashed into smithereens.’
‘God forgive them,’ Mary said. But she got no chance to say anything more.
‘God forbid they’d ever break in here,’ Mrs. Hennessy continued, ‘and you with everything a body could want for. Sofas and chairs and table and nice pictures. They’d make short work of it all. Thanks be to God they’ll find little of value to damage in Ellen Hennessy’s caboosh, and what little there ever was is safely stored by now in The Erin’s Isle Pawnbroking Establishment. That’s the advantage of having nothing. You can’t lose it.’
Then, after a breath she said: ‘Still—God is good.’
Mary said sympathetically: ‘Your poor husband is out of work again, I’m told.’
‘Is he ever in work,’ Mrs. Hennessy broke in. ‘He had a nice little job and, as usual, wouldn’t mind it.’
‘It was unfortunate,’ Mary said.
‘Wait till I tell you,’ Mrs. Hennessy said. ‘He goes off to Sackville Street a few weeks ago to see will Larkin turn up and comes home to me with his head in a bandage and his arm dislocated. “What happened to you Hennessy?” say I, when he came in the door. “I was caught in a charge in Sackville Street,” says he, “and got a belt of a baton. And when I fell I think I was walked on be a horse.” Right enough, when he took off his shirt he was black and blue all over. “That’s what you get,” says I, “for playing the Red Hand hayro. Now your wife and your unfortunate children can go hungry.”’
She gathered her shawl about her head once more.
‘I’ll go up now,’ she said, ‘and look after them. They’re all alone and like a bag of cats for want of a bit to eat. I’m more than obliged for the loan of the milk and the sugar.’
Then she surveyed the room again. Her eyes went from item to item, assessing each.
‘You have enough here to stave off the hunger for many a long day,’ she assured Mary, ‘and if the time ever comes when you have to start shifting some of it, just give me the word. Ellen Hennessy will see you get the right price in any pawnshop in the city. Don’t forget now.’
‘I won’t forget,’ Mary said.
She closed the door after Mrs. Hennessy and stood for a moment to wonder whether kindness or envy had inspired the other woman’s offer. God help her, she had little in her life to prompt her to generosity, with her husband who seldom worked and a family that kept increasing. Her life was a succession of childbirths, her days dependent on the pawnshop and reluctant little charities wheedled from her neighbours. If she was envious or grudging she had every reason to be.
Mary sat down at the window again, determined to be patient while she waited for Fitz to return from his meeting, trying not to lose hope among the ever deepening shadows of the street. What Mrs. Hennessy had looked upon as her guarantee against misfortune would be the misfortune itself, to part with the things she had gathered, to break up the home she had made through personal sacrifice and with the sympathetic help of Mrs. Bradshaw. That help, at least, would continue. Mrs. Bradshaw was a kindly woman. When she knew of the trouble she would do little things to help. For Mrs. Bradshaw had everything except children. That was the strange way the world worked. Mrs. Hennessy had too many. But that was the Will of God.
Sometimes she had tried to imagine what it would be like to change places with Mrs. Bradshaw, to sit in a beautiful house looking out at the garden, with a bell near at hand to summon a servant to open the windows when the room grew warm with the sun, or to close them when the evening air became cool. To give orders about the meals. And to arrange the flowers—saying this should go here and that should go there. To play the piano when there was company. To dress elegantly for the theatre. To wash with delicate soaps. To carry a pretty purse of notes and sovereigns. And she would have education. And she would speak with a beautiful accent. But she would have to have been born differently, never knowing her father, or her mother who was dead. And she would have no children. And she would have Mr. Bradshaw. No.
She heard Fitz on the landing outside and heard him opening the door.
‘You’re sitting in the dark,’ he said.
She looked round, noticing for the first time that by now there was hardly any light falling into the room. She rose and said: ‘I’ll light the lamp. How did your meeting go?’
He left his cap on the dresser, a habit she had given up trying to cure him of. He saw her hair falling forward across her cheek and saw the outline of her features in the lamplight and remembered their wedding night.
‘They’re releasing Larkin,’ he answered. ‘The Government have stepped in.’
That was probably good news. She did not know the ins and outs of the trouble.
‘That’s good,’ she said.
‘And the strike pay will be ten shillings a week—for a while at any rate.’
‘Is it going to go on, do you think?’
‘They say it can’t,’ Fitz answered.
She was aware of him watching her as she bent over the lamp. She knew he was watching her closely. He was troubled. She felt that too.
‘But you think it will,’ she said, knowing by his tone.
‘Yes,’ he said.
She put the chimney back on the lamp and adjusted the wick.
‘What are we to do, Fitz?’
He had been thinking about that for some days. The only hope had been that the general refusal would lead to a withdrawal of the form and a return to work until the whole thing had been argued out. But that had not happened. Instead the employers had hardened in their attitude.