James Plunkett - Strumpet City

‘Lily,’ he said.

She laughed and came close to him.

‘I was a bit of a fool in those days, wasn’t I?’ she said. ‘I was going to be smart and make easy money. That’s what I thought. A bloody little fool. It’s just as well I got a fright that knocked a bit of sense into me.’

‘It’s a long time ago, Lily. I wouldn’t go on thinking about it.’

‘I suppose we’re both fools. That means we ought to suit each other.’

‘Down to the ground,’ Pat agreed.

‘Well—are you going to ask me?’

‘Ask you what?’

She appealed again to Queen Victoria.

‘Listen to him,’ she begged.

He realised what she meant and made amends.

‘Will you—Lily?’

‘Yes,’ she answered.

He looked in his turn at Queen Victoria and a thought struck him.

‘Do you want to ask her permission?’

‘I don’t recognise royalty any longer,’ Lily decided.

‘A Sinn Feiner?’

‘No,’ Lily said, ‘Workers’ Republic.’

‘Grand,’ Pat pronounced, ‘we’ll get on together like Siamese twins.’

He kissed her and they became serious again. There were no more barriers. Love and tenderness engulfed both of them. Rashers moaned in the darkness. The fire had burnt itself out. The streak of light had left the ceiling. A chill dampness filled the basement and settled on his beard and on the rags that covered him. The burning agony in his bowels was turning his insides into vapour and water. He tried to raise himself but found that in one arm and one leg there was no sensation at all. They hung with an immovable weight, pinning him down.

‘Sweet Christ,’ he repeated over and over again. ‘Sweet Christ.’

He listened for sounds that would tell how near it might be to morning. There were none. The house above him slept, the streets outside were empty. He felt his bowels loosening and ground his teeth as he fought to control them. If he fouled what he was wearing there was nothing he could change into. He made another desperate effort to get to his feet. It was useless. He had no power over his limbs. He was held by the weight of his ailing body.

‘Rusty,’ he called, the dog came to him.

‘Lie down,’ he said, ‘lie down.’

In the dense darkness he could see nothing, but he felt the weight of the dog as it settled against his side. For a moment there was comfort in that. He could hear it breathing in the darkness and feel the warmth of its body. The world was not entirely empty. Then the pains became worse. He felt his bowels melting and loosening in spite of his will. A burning hot liquid trickled incontinently. He made an agonising effort to stop it but failed. With a sudden rush his bowels voided their contents of foulness and gas. He felt his buttocks sticky and saturated. But he still could not move. He had an interval of complete numbness, without pain or thought of any kind. Then the slow agony inside him flickered into life and began its mounting torture all over again.

In the morning Pat slipped out of the house when Lily signalled to him that the way was clear. At the loading yard he found he had his own horse back again. He was pleased when it greeted him with signs of excitement. His first stop was at a bookmaker’s office, where he found his Double had turned up, Packleader winning by four lengths from Romer and Enoch at seven to two—Revolution by a length from Duke of Leinster and Prince Danzel at nine to four on. The collapse of the aristocracy was a good omen. Fitz, he reckoned roughly, would draw about fourteen shillings. He did not grudge it. Securing the sack about his shoulders with a large safety pin Lily had supplied he strode out to face the work of the long day. There would be other and better doubles. His heart told him he was on a winning streak.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

On St. Patrick’s Day, the newspapers reported, the weather was somewhat sharp—but for the robust, healthy and invigorating. The display of the chosen leaf was universal. In the Pro-Cathedral and other churches the ceremonies were specially devoted to panegyrics of the national Saint and sermons in Irish were preached to crowded congregations. A visiting English priest reminded the Irish Faithful that it was fifteen hundred years since Ireland’s great Father and Friend had passed away to the music of the spheres. Another referred to Home Rule and prophesied that the hour of National deliverance was at last at hand. The shop windows of the city, including the one Keever had dressed, devoted themselves to displays of home-manufactured goods while the citizens, most of whom had a holiday, went to the races at Baldoyle or made extended excursions by train, tram and outside car. From the flagstaffs of the Town Halls from Dublin to Bray the green flag was floating, Kingstown being the only exception. It was the exception that proved the Rule.

At the Mansion House the Gaelic League denounced the Post Office for refusing to accept parcels addressed in Irish. At the Castle there was a St. Patrick’s Ball where the excellent music of the band, the gaily moving dancers, the beautiful costumes of the ladies, the bright and varied military uniforms of the officers and officials, the stately Court dress of the gentlemen, all blended in a pleasing kaleidoscope of colour and harmony. Earlier his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant had attended the trooping of the colour in the Castle yard, where he inspected the parade of the Second Battalion West Riding Regiment. It was thrash the beetles and God Save the King; Hail Glorious St. Patrick for Britannia Ruled the Waves.

Hennessy inspected a parade too. It was the procession of the Irish National Foresters in their plumed hats and tight breeches, marching on their way from Parnell Square to Donnybrook Church, headed by members of the Ladies’ Section in their long cloaks. In order to do so fittingly he bought a buttonhole of shamrock with a penny and told the vendor to keep the change. He found the day robust and sharp, but not invigorating. He had continuous trouble with a drop on the end of his nose due to the wind and an attack of chronic catarrh. He wiped it away several times but it kept on turning up again. Like a bad ha’penny, he decided.

It did not affect his humour. He had had regular work for some weeks that paid modestly and was full time. It would continue for another fortnight at least. After that it would be time enough to worry again. For the present he had a little money, the National Festival to celebrate, a band to listen to and a parade to gawk at.

It was a good parade. The Foresters stepping it out in their ostrich-plumed hats, their frilled shirts, their top boots, their green coats and plentiful gold braid brought back the age of Erin The Brave. In line upon line the proud brotherhood passed him, imperishable, glorious, while with erect soldierly bearing and eyes flashing under the rim of his bowler hat he reviewed them rank by rank—Robert Emmet Hennessy; Aloysius Wolfe Tone. The band made his heart beat hard and sent his blood racing. It played (but in march time, he noted) ‘O Rich And Rare were the Gems She Wore’, which told of a maiden who adorned in costly jewels and without escort of any kind walked the length and breadth of Ireland unafraid of robbery or assault.

Hennessy repeated to himself:

‘Kind sir I have not the least alarm

No son of Erin would offer me harm

For, though they love women and golden store

Sir Knight—they love honour and virtue more.’

So too did Son of Erin Robert Emmet Hennessy, the Honour and Virtue loving Aloysius Wolfe Tone.

The parade passed, the music of the band faded away on the somewhat sharp but healthy and invigorating March air. He had been to holy mass already. It was time to wet the shamrock. A hot whiskey, he thought.