Strumpet City (17 page)

‘You are being asked,’ Father O’Connor summarised when he had finished, ‘to refuse your own employer’s instructions in order to force a point against another employer?’

‘That’s what I’m being asked, Father.’

‘And you’ve no grievance against your own employer?’

‘None at all, Father.’

‘It seems to me,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘there can be no moral justification whatever for injuring your own employer in his business because of the supposed shortcomings of some other employer.’

‘That’s how Mr. Hegarty put it.’

‘Mr. Hegarty is perfectly right.’

‘You’ve taken a weight off my mind, Father,’ Keever assured him. He turned again to the statue of St. Finbar, then looked questioningly at Father O’Connor, who hesitated. The shrine and the kneeling board were obviously sources of deep pride. Father O’Connor crossed himself. Despite the dog box, the outdoor toilet, the monstrous, grimy wall, he attempted to pray. He would have liked to gratify Keever’s wish, but the thought of kneeling defeated his will. He crossed himself but remained standing. After a while he crossed himself again and followed Keever back into the kitchen, consoling himself with the thought that at least he was visiting in his parish, and ministering in foul rooms compared with which Keever’s kitchen was a palace. As they went in, a train passed with such a thunderous commotion that the yard and its contents shuddered and seemed to hover on the brink of disintegration.

They had a glass of plain porter each in Mulligan’s snug. It was almost noon. Sunlight caught the edge of the table. The wood was worn. Near where Lily’s glass rested someone had tried to carve initials but they were indecipherable.

‘You shouldn’t have come into this business, love,’ Maisie said. ‘You haven’t the temperament.’

‘I know that now,’ Lily confessed.

‘And this fellow I was talking about,’ Maisie said. ‘Mind you, it’s not everybody he’ll take on, because he’s afraid of gossip. But I think I could persuade him to see you.’

‘Three pounds is a lot of money.’

‘Three guineas, sweetheart, he’s still got his professional pride.’

‘Maybe it isn’t
It
at all.’

‘Maybe it is. Do you want your teeth going bad and your nice hair . . .’

‘Shut up, for Jaysus’ sake.’

Lily moved her glass until it covered the indecipherable initials.

‘I’m near distracted, Maisie.’

Maisie drained her drink and punched the bell behind her.

‘You don’t want to go to the Locke, do you, with all the ditch-and-doorway element?’

‘God forbid,’ Lily said.

‘‘How are you for money?’

‘Desperate, but I’ve four quid . . .’

‘I wouldn’t call that very desperate,’ Maisie said.

‘ . . . which isn’t mine.’

‘Matter-a-damn who’s it is.’

‘I’m minding it for a fella.’

‘Get yourself looked after, girl.’

A panel opened and a man acknowledged Maisie’s gesture by inclining his bald dome at them. They both waited. He returned and placed two more glasses on the ledge. Maisie paid him and took the drinks to the table.

‘Well . . . ?’ she said to Lily.

‘Give me the address.’

‘That’s the ticket.’ Maisie beamed with relief. ‘He never qualified because of the drink and he’ll have a booze with your three guineas as soon as you leave him. But he won’t let you down if treatment is wanted.’

‘I hope to God he’s good.’

‘Liz and Agnes Benson swear by him. And many another.’

Maisie rooted in her handbag. She found a pencil, but neither of them had a piece of paper.

‘To hell with it,’ Maisie said, ‘I’ll bring you to him myself.’

‘You’re an angel,’ Lily said. ‘When?’

‘This evening.’

They both drank.

‘Here’s hoping,’ Maisie said, smiling encouragement. There was no need to name the hope. Lily remained subdued.

‘I’m sorry about this chap’s four pounds,’ she explained. ‘He’s not a customer, he’s a friend.’

Maisie said she was a queer girl.

The news that Nolan & Keyes had made up their minds to attempt delivery to Morgan & Co. reached Doggett through channels of his own. He had no option but to act himself. The men he employed knew of his presence almost as soon as they reported for work. They, too, had their own channels.

‘Doggett’s up above’ the nearest carter whispered to Mulhall. They both interrupted yoking-up to look at the window of the superintendent’s office. It was long and overlooked the yard. The early-morning air, pungent and misty, forecast an uncertain day.

‘It’s not the weather brought him down so early,’ Mulhall said.

To Doggett, who was looking down at the activity in the marshalling yard, they were two men among a score or so of others. He smoked and watched.

‘You’ve instructed the foreman?’ Doggett asked.

‘I have, sir. They get the dockets as they pass the scales.’

The superintendent was nervous.

‘All the dockets are for Morgan & Co?’

‘All the one destination, sir.’

‘That’s the idea,’ Doggett said. ‘No word yet of the situation at Nolan & Keyes?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

Doggett moved nearer to the window. He said, conversationally, ‘We’ve been busy, you know—very busy.’

‘It’ll slacken soon, with the summer coming on, sir.’

‘Seasonal. Still, I anticipate we’ll do better than average.’

‘I hope so, sir.’

‘We all hope so,’ Mr. Doggett said. He was watching each move below him, his mind working coolly. He saw the carts loaded and the marshalling procedure beginning.

Mulhall lay about twelfth in line. He lit his pipe and spat from his plank seat. He kept his eyes on the men nearer the scales. They had agreed, but they might break just the same. It would be a new kind of strike, if it came off. The first man drove on to the scales and waited while the clerk weighed. He accepted the destination docket, read it carefully and put it in his pocket. Doggett, his hands behind his back, watched from the window. This, he knew, was the crucial moment. The line of carters watched too. The leading carter drove clear of the scales and towards the gate. Everybody wondered. They saw him rein in as he approached the gate, which was narrow. Then he gave a check to the reins. While still in the yard the horse and cart swung to the right of the gate and the carter dismounted. The second carter did likewise but more decisively. So did the rest, until the whole line was at a standstill and the cart in front left no room to cross the scales. Mulhall, seeing the foreman going over to the men, left down his reins and went to them also. He took the delivery docket from one of the men who had crossed the scales, read it and signalled to the others. They dismounted, some with a leap, some clambering down laboriously or reluctantly. Doggett saw them forming into a circle for consultation. Some time later the foreman reported to the superintendent in the outer office, who brought the decision to Doggett.

‘They refuse to deliver to Morgan & Co., sir.’ Mr. Doggett had already discussed the prodecure with him.

‘Very well,’ he instructed, ‘re-consign everything as we prepared it. And try to find out what the situation is in Nolan & Keyes.’

‘It’ll take some time, sir. Where can I contact you?’

‘Right here,’ Doggett said in a tone which made the superintendent jerk nervously. Before he moved away from the window he saw the men being despatched one by one to the alternative destinations. It took time, because their loads had to be adjusted. But it was accomplished without a hitch.

Nolan & Keyes reported a split. At first the refusal seemed unanimous, but after bickering and argument Timothy Keever, fortified by Father O’Connor’s advice, followed his conscience and persuaded some of the others that he was right. They delivered to the foundry. The rest of the men in Nolan & Keyes persisted in their refusal. They were locked out. Doggett took the news coolly, although it placed him in an extremely dangerous position. If word got out to Morgan’s that he had given in to the carters’ threat and that Nolan & Keyes had stood firm his contract would be in danger. But he had laid his plans. Now that Nolan & Keyes had attempted delivery there was only one safe course open.

‘Work out an afternoon consignment for Morgan’s,’ he told the superintendent. ‘Supervise the loading personally and lockout immediately if we have a second refusal.’

‘Yes, sir.’

There was a chance, Doggett felt, that the men might weaken under the pressure of a renewed instruction. Meanwhile there was another precaution to be taken, in case the news that he had surrendered early that morning got about.

‘I’ve forgotten the yard foreman’s name.

‘O’Connor, sir.’

‘Please send him to me.’

The foreman was a small man in his fifties. Coal grime had settled permanently in the pores of his face. A black sweat beaded his forehead and streaked his temples.

‘You’re O’Connor?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘The men refused your instructions this morning?’

‘They did, sir. They said they were standing by Larkin’s agreement.’

‘Are you a member of that gentleman’s organisation?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you know anything about it?’

‘Only what I hear the men saying, from time to time.’

‘For instance?’

‘It’s the National Union of Dockers, sir. Mr. Sexton is general secretary but Mr. Larkin is Irish organiser. Sexton doesn’t like him. He won’t recognise the strikes engineered by Mr. Larkin and he may stop strike pay.’

‘How do they propose to finance themselves?’

‘They’ll collect around the docks and all over the country. Larkin is collecting in Cork at present.’

‘You know quite a lot about Mr. Larkin.’

‘Only what I hear, sir. The men have a good deal of talk about him.’

‘Too much, it appears,’ Doggett said. He rose and left the desk.

‘How long are you with us?’

‘About thirty years, sir—since Mr. Waterville’s time.’

‘How long have you been yard foreman?’

‘Fifteen years, sir.’

‘Fifteen years is a long time.’

‘It is, sir.’ O’Connor’s face betrayed a moment’s pleasure.

‘Long enough,’ Doggett continued, ‘to have learned the art of handling men in.’

O’Connor hesitated. Doggett’s tone had changed suddenly. He became confused.

‘It isn’t easy these days, sir, with so much agitation going on.’

‘We had evidence of that this morning, hadn’t we?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s all for the moment,’ Doggett said. He called the superintendent.

‘I have been speaking to O’Connor.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Doggett looked steadily at the superintendent.

‘O’Connor is unsatisfactory,’ he said, ‘pay him off this evening.’

The superintendent took a little while to grasp what was meant.

‘Dismiss him—sir?’

‘Yes. I expect my foremen to be competent.’

The next day the men in the foundry, standing by their promise, refused to handle the coal that had been delivered by Keever and his followers. The Board met briefly to decide to lock out. Only Yearling expressed hesitation.

‘Our insistence hasn’t done much good, has it?’ he remarked.

‘What do you suggest?’ the chairman asked.

It was a question Yearling had answered over and over again. Now he merely shrugged.

‘We have no option,’ the chairman insisted, ‘unless we are prepared to encourage anarchy.’

‘I thought Doggett might fail us,’ someone said. ‘He’s been trick-o’-the-looping.’

‘Not this time,’ the chairman said.

‘He diverted the first load, I’ve been told.’

‘There is an explanation,’ the chairman answered. ‘He had trouble with a foreman. It appears the fellow was in the pay of Larkin and diverted the load on his own initiative. Doggett tells me he has dismissed him.’

‘The only medicine,’ someone approved. ‘Good for Doggett.’

In May the carters of Nolan & Keyes and of Doggett & Co. were joined by all the other carters of the city who went on strike against the masters’ rejection of a general wage demand. New pickets appeared. The coal-carrying trade came to a standstill. Father O’Connor paid off Rashers and closed down the boiler-house for the summer. He wondered if his advice to Keever had been responsible, however indirectly, for closing down the foundry. Whenever he passed a picket throughout the months of June and July the thought came freshly into his mind. He had spoken with a conscientious regard for justice, yet there was another side to it that troubled him, something in the faces of the men: tiredness, the dark lines of hunger, the way they saluted him and the speculative look with which their eyes regarded him as he passed. When he went the rounds of his parish there were hungry children in the strikers’ homes. Poverty might disgust him, but that was some uncontrollable reaction in himself. It was not that he had lost his pity for it.

‘Do you think they would have locked out if all of you had refused delivery?’ he asked Keever.

‘I don’t know, Father. They didn’t at first in Doggett’s.’

‘I see,’ Father O’Connor said.

‘The men are blaming me.’

‘You must tell them . . .’ Father O’Connor began. He had been about to add ‘that Father O’Connor advised you.’ But he had second thoughts. The Church had its own work. He must keep clear of conflicts in a world he did not altogether understand. He had been asked for a moral judgment. He had given it. The rest was not his business.

‘Tell them the Christian workman must at all times acknowledge certain principles to be above the claims of man-made organizations.’

Keever decided not to mention that he had already done so. He had been told what to do with his principles. It hurt him but had no persuasive effect whatever. Finding no outlet for ambition or reason for hope on earth, Keever had long ago fixed heaven with acquisitive and unflinching eyes.

‘At the same time we have a duty to help the wives and children,’ Father O’Connor said. ‘I want you to make a list of families for me—not more than ten for a start—whom you think are most in need of relief. You and Mr. Hegarty and the members of the Confraternity Committee can make up some food parcels for distribution.’