Strumpet City (67 page)

Father Giffley attended, gathered, itemised, as the cab jolted its way through rain-swept streets. The smell grew steadily worse. It was the breath of Destitution itself.

Father Giffley said:

‘If you call to me on Tuesday next I’ll see you get work to do, either about the church or elsewhere. Go to my housekeeper for something to eat and wait for me until I am free.’

‘The blessing of God on you, Father.’

‘You’ll do that?’

‘Let anything try to hinder me.’

‘Good.’

The cabdriver leaned down and shouted to them.

‘Chandlers Court, Father. Was it Number 3?’

‘Number 3,’ Rashers answered.

‘There’s something very peculiar going on there,’ the cabman said. He slackened pace and drew in to the footpath. As Rashers stepped down the cabman said to him:

‘Have a look.’

Father Giffley poked his head through the window. A crowd had gathered about one of the doorways.

‘It’s the police,’ Rashers said, ‘A police raid.’

‘Take my advice,’ the cabman offered, ‘and keep away from there until they leave.’

‘And let them ill treat the poor oul dog,’ Rashers said, ‘not bloody likely.’

He turned to salute Father Giffley and limped away.

‘What would the police want?’ Father Giffley said.

‘Breaking up the homes of the unfortunate people,’ the cabman said, ‘that’s a regular game of theirs.’

‘For what reason?’

‘To terrorise them. There’s another shipload of scabs came in from England this morning and Larkin is holding a protest march and a meeting about it tonight. So the police is getting in the first blow.’ The cabman gathered in the reins and added: ‘I know you condemn Larkin and the people that follows him, but it’s no bed of roses for any of them.’ He flicked the reins.

‘One moment,’ Father Giffley ordered. He stepped down on to the path and surveyed the crowd.

‘Wait here for me,’ he added, when he had made up his mind.

The rain had eased, leaving behind it oily puddles along the cobbled street. He had condemned nobody. On the contrary. And he would not have the Church represented as an oppressor. Some women in the crowd outside Number 3 were weeping. Neighbours comforted them. The children, who cried simply because their mothers were crying, were dirty and dressed in rags. As he pushed his way through the crowd they gaped at him in surprise. ‘It’s Father Giffley,’ he heard them say. He acknowledged their salutes grimly. A woman cried out:

‘Stop them, Father, stop them.’

It was a despairing cry. He pretended not to hear it, but something in his heart leaped in answer. He was not, after all, entirely useless.

He strode into the hallway and up the stairs. The first landing was deserted. He listened. Heavy sounds came from somewhere above him. He climbed to the second landing. The noise was coming from behind the door on his left. He pushed it open and stepped in. He stood speechless.

In one corner a young woman with her children gathered about her was crying with terror. Two policemen held a man who had been beaten to the floor. His face and shirt were covered in blood. A dresser of delph had been overturned and the shattered debris was scattered over the floor. Chairs and boxes had been broken. Three other policemen stood around while a fourth was using a heavy bar to smash a table. At every blow the children screamed. His anger fought against his speechlessness until at last it surged out thunderously.

‘Stop,’ he shouted.

They all turned together to look at him.

‘What devil’s work is this?’

It was the voice of the Pulpit. They stopped. Their eyes fixed on his priestly collar, then moved almost in unison to their spokesman. The sergeant squared his shoulders.

‘We’re only doing our duty, Father.’

‘Duty.’

‘This man here intimidated another and prevented him from attending his work. When we called to question him in the course of our duty he became violent and refused to co-operate.’

‘Indeed. And for that reason you terrify his wife and deliberately destroy his property.’

‘That was in the course of the struggle.’

‘Was this hulking brute here breaking up a table in the course of the struggle?’

‘That was in the heat of the moment, Father.’

‘You’re a glib-tongued, lying rogue,’ Father Giffley said. He crossed the room and stood over the two policemen.

‘Release that man,’ he ordered.

The policemen obeyed him. Fitz straightened his arms. The agony of doing so was almost worse than what he had endured when they had twisted them behind his back. Mary rushed over to put her arms about him and then to wipe his face. She was sobbing uncontrollably.

‘Now get out,’ Father Giffley said to the police. The sergeant began to bluster.

‘We have our duty to do . . .’ he said.

Father Giffley strode across to him.

‘If you delay another moment,’ he said, ‘I’ll have you put behind bars yourself for what you have done to these people. I intend to report everything I’ve seen.’

‘I mean no disrespect to your calling, Father . . .’

‘Go,’ Father Giffley ordered.

The sergeant signalled to his men. They left.

Father Giffley took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Mary.

‘Use this,’ he said, ‘attend to your husband’s injuries. What’s your name?’

‘Fitzpatrick, Father.’

‘Fitzpatrick. I intend to report what has happened. Perhaps we should call an ambulance?’

‘I’m all right, Father,’ Fitz said.

‘Very well.’

Father Giffley took a pound note from his pocket and left it on the mantelpiece.

‘A little assistance,’ he said, ‘you’ll need it.’ He turned about at the door and said to them:

‘Have courage.’ Then he left.

The people had come back into the house and were crowding the staircase and the hall. He went grimly through them, neither turning his head nor acknowledging what they said to him. When he reached his cab he said to the driver.

‘Take me to Liberty Hall.’

‘Liberty Hall?’

‘Isn’t that Mr. Larkin’s headquarters?’

‘It is, Father.’

‘Very well. Take me there.’

The void was forgotten, yet the streets that moved past the narrow window of the cab were not altogether real. There was too little of them to be seen at any one time; a patch of cobbles, an open door, railings from which a child, seated on a rope swing, bobbed once into sight and was whipped away. He opened the window wide and leaned nearer to it and that was better. The smell of sea and shipping came to him. He saw the surface of the river tormented by the wind, the funnels of ships against the threatening sky, gulls rising against it and being whirled backwards; and at last, the squat building by Butt Bridge with the words over the door that appeared in the papers day after day: Liberty Hall.

‘Wait for me,’ he said.

There was the unfailing queue for food and soup. He passed them. In the hallway and on the staircase the smell of cooking and of ill fed bodies intermingled. He knocked on a door which was opened by a man in the working class uniform of cap and knotted muffler.

‘I wish to speak with Mr. Larkin.’

‘Who shall I say, Father?’

‘Father Giffley of St. Brigid’s.’

‘Please wait here, Father.’

He stepped inside. It was a long room overlooking the river. There were rough benches about the walls and a long table in the centre. In anticipation of the outcome of the forthcoming trial for sedition men were preparing rough posters and fitting them to poles. One lot read ‘Release Larkin’. And another ‘Larkin gaoled by Lloyd George’. There was a third:

‘British Comrades

No Larkin

No Lloyd George’

The man returned and said, ‘This way, Father.’ He opened the door of an inner room, nodded to Father Giffley to enter, closed the door behind him.

‘Father Giffley,’ Larkin said, ‘please sit down.’

‘I would rather stand,’ Father Giffley said.

‘Suit yourself.’

Father Giffley, face to face with the most talked about man in the country, remained silent. He saw a man of about thirty-five years of age, big physically, with a face which had a strong jaw and deep circles of tiredness under the eyes. A lock of brown hair fell across the forehead and had a streak of grey running through it.

‘Don’t hesitate,’ Larkin said, ‘I get at least three of your cloth here each week—all warning me of the devil and hell’s fire. What complaint against me have you?’

‘I have no complaint against you.’

‘You’ve come to offer to help me?’

‘I have,’ Father Giffley said.

‘A number of priests have done that, too. For their own sakes I send them away.’

‘There is something I need advice about,’ Father Giffley said. ‘Today, in one of the houses in my parish I found a body of police who were acting like blackguards. They had beaten a man and terrified his wife and children. When I arrived they were wantonly destroying every stick of furniture.’

‘Didn’t you know that it happens all the time?’

‘Perhaps I did. But I had never witnessed it before. I intend to lodge a complaint and if necessary, give evidence. I want advice on how best to go about it.’

‘It would do no good.’

‘It can be tried.’

‘It has been tried countless times already,’ Larkin said, ‘by eminent men who have courage and sympathy. And by a few men of your own calling too, Father. Nothing is ever done, because the Government is committed to the employers and the police can indulge in any lawlessness they like so long as it’s aimed at the poor.’

‘Then I’ll take part in your protest march,’ Father Giffley said, ‘and condemn it from your platform.’ It was the voice of the Pulpit again, determined, authoritative, loud enough to fill a church. But there was a note in it which brought Larkin to his feet. Father Giffley’s face was red and its muscles were no longer under his control.

‘Father,’ Larkin said, ‘I’m grateful for your offer, but it wouldn’t be wise for either of us. Now let me thank you and see you safely down the stairs.’

Father Giffley did not move. He was angry. He was ashamed. It was a shame he had never experienced before, a dark tide of shame from the half-world he had tried to defend himself against all day. It flowed noiselessly into him and filled him, engulfing everything. He began to sob, but without tears. Larkin put his arm about his shoulder. Father Giffley said:

‘Don’t come with me. Please continue with your work.’

The cabman was still waiting for him. There was no rain now. The wind had bundled it away. They set off once more through streets that were growing dark with evening, so that their disconnected fragments jolting past the window were too dim to have any impact. He was grateful for that. He listened to the grinding of cobbles, the swish of puddles beneath the wheels. The need to drink again became pressing. He tapped the glass.

‘You may let me down,’ he said, ‘I’ll walk a little.’ He paid off the cabdriver, then took his bearings. He was on the riverside again. The waters, still tormented by the wind, were criss-crossed with laces of foam and slapped angrily against the berthing walls. They stretched before him, drawing his eyes with them as they widened and outran the massive confines of the quays and merged into darker, undisciplined spaces of the bay. It was a vista of cold, grey tones. A lamplighter, moving at a distance ahead of him and to his right, lifted his long stick with its taperlike flame and added bead after bead to a chain of softly glowing lamps. The melancholy became unbearable. He hastened his steps. The windows of a public house relieved the gloom of a side street. He passed the large swing doors and found what he wanted, the small, discreet entrance marked—Snug.

There was a slide in the wall which opened when he tapped on it.

‘Whiskey,’ he said.

‘I’ll put a match to the gas for you,’ the barman offered.

‘No, no—leave it as it is.’

The partition dividing the snug from the bar did not rise all the way to the ceiling. The light that spilled over was enough for his purpose; it was insufficient to betray his features or his calling.

‘Very good, sir,’ the barman said. He brought a glass of whiskey which Father Giffley raised to his lips, then lowered without tasting to say quickly before the barman could turn away: ‘Bring me another.’

Some time later he sat down. He slept a little and seemed to dream. He heard the door open, heard a scuffle and smothered laughter and then a woman’s voice said:

‘Oh Jaysus, stop, look, there’s someone there.’

Or thought he had. He could not be sure. There were three glasses of whiskey on the table in front of him, little yellow points of light in the semi-darkness. The bar had grown noisy, a persistent but sleepy noise that was now that of rough, confused voices, now the far off murmur of a church full of people at prayer. He took one of the glasses and swallowed. One little yellow point of light went out. He placed it sadly between the two that still glowed. He regarded it.

Bloodied faces begged him to have pity on them, not to beat them, not to forget he was a man of God. A puppy that had been given to him in his father’s house when he was seven years old came and barked at him and wagged its tail and asked him to play. It was white with brown markings. The sister of the bishop threatened to report him. She was as hateful as ever. She told him he was a disgrace to the priesthood, one who consecrated Christ only to crucify Him. No wonder there was blood on everything he saw or touched.

As she said this the two yellow points of light became red. He was about to shout at her. A voice advised him not to; he would be heard by others. Instead he raised one of the glasses with a sudden, defiant movement and swallowed. Thick, clinging, sickeningly warm, the taste of blood transfixed him. He spat out what he could. It was no use. The odour spread outwards and thickened the air about him. The semi-darkness became unbearable. He left down his glass and groped his way out to the street.

A band was playing in the distance. At first he could hear only the rhythmic beating of the drum. He tried to ignore it, suspecting that the sound came from inside his head. But as it grew louder in volume and the brass and reed instruments added their voices he realised what it was.