James Plunkett - Strumpet City

He decided to commit something to the sea, a thing he had been fond of doing as a child. He found a pencil and tore a page from his pocket diary and scrawled:

Time takes all away. This was written by a madman on the shores of a mad island.

He put the note in the bottle, pushed in the cork, and threw the bottle as far as he could into the sea. Not very far. He could see it bobbing up and down. He had to squint to do so. His eyes were not very good.

By that time the troopship had cast off from the North Wall, the civilians had finished their cheering and waving, the band on the quayside had come to the end of its brassy music, Mary and Mrs. Mulhall were already on their way back to Chandlers Court. Fitz, the leavetaking over, leaned on the rail of the ship while below him the water of the river whirled past. On the quayside every single thing was familiar, every shed, every crane that raised a bony finger along the South Wall. He saw the gateway of Doggett & Co., the gateway of Nolan & Keyes, the Gas Company gasometers, the corrugated shelter that housed the emergency water supply on the roof of No. 4 house in the yard of the foundry. He hoped they had found someone who could work it. At the Pigeon House, where the river widened out, he saw the strand he had walked with Mary and the Shellybanks where he had proposed to her. Children were exploring its seapools. He wondered if they were still searching for a crab that had money in its purse. Away inland he could see the Martello tower and the houses along Sandymount Strand.

Another soldier said to him:

‘Got a match?’

He took out his box. The soldier offered a cigarette. He took it. The wind whipped at the match. He cradled the flame between his palms. They lit up.

His heart was full of Mary. Each moment that passed was putting its extra little piece of world between them, each twist of the propeller carried him further and further from her. But she would have the allowance. The children would eat. The rent would be paid. In the Royal Army Service Corps he would learn to be a motor mechanic or a car driver. He would be sure of a job when he came back. If he came back. That was as would be.

The soldier seemed lonely and leaned beside him on the rail. He was from Dublin too. He said:

‘Funny feeling—isn’t it?’

He was looking at the mountains that surrounded the bay. They were floating dreamily on sea and sunlight. Multicoloured.

The two of them smoked together. The Black Lighthouse loomed up and fell behind them as the ship cleared the river at last and swung into the bay. Bells tinkled remotely. Their speed increased. Ireland slipped away behind. Before them lay England and training camps, beyond that the Continent. Foreign tongues, unfamiliar countries, shattered towns. War.

The bottle kept returning to Father Giffley. Three times he flung it into the sea. Three times the sea, after long intervals of indecision, brought it back and left it lying again on the shore. The third time it deposited it almost at his feet. He picked it up angrily and smashed it against a rock. Then he became conscience stricken and carefully gathered together the broken pieces. He took them back among the sand dunes and stowed them in a place where they could inflict no damage on bare feet. He cut his own thumb in the process. Blood ran down his coat sleeve and stained the cuff of his shirt. He wrapped his handkerchief around his thumb. The pain set his nerves on edge. He allowed himself a measure from his hip flask, enough to soothe but not so much as would leave him short for his need later on.

The letter from the Bradshaws dated 19th July told Yearling they had been to Portsmouth to view the test mobilisation of the Fleet on a day of perfect weather when the whole place had been en fête and the seafront packed with people. They would both be returning to Ireland in September but not to Dublin. They would stay with Mrs. Bradshaw’s family in Kilkenny while they looked around for somewhere permanent. They hoped to see him.

The letter was two months old. It read already like something from twenty years before. He stuffed the remaining correspondence in his pocket and rose to his feet. He knew now he would go to London. Not because of the war. The war was irrelevant. The war was neither here nor there. He had been uneasy and restless for such a long time. Among the lakes and rivers of Connemara where he had fished and dreamed for two not very memorable months, among people he had met in clubs and hotels, among the streets and byways of Dublin. Nothing would ever happen in Ireland again. Not to him anyway. Nothing ever had. But in London, for a little while and impossibly long ago, life had revealed briefly its dangerous dimensions. Perhaps in London it would do so again. In some other way, of course. And without heartbreak.

He went over to his piano and lifted the lid. It looked lonely too. Very gently he pressed one of the keys. A single musical sound startled the room. It was sweet toned, luminous, sad. He shut the lid again. It was time to go. There was nothing to stay for any longer. He closed the window and let himself out the hall door. It clicked shut behind him.

As Father Giffley made his way back up the lane a train crossed the bridge. He heard its rumble in the distance, stopped, decided to look. Two children at a window saw his black-coated figure and waved their handkerchiefs at him. He waved back. The sky had filled with a pink light which tinted the inland fields and spread its glowing stain on the sea. They continued to wave at each other, the children with their white handkerchiefs, he with his bloodstained one, until the train had gone a long way and looked like a giant black caterpillar against the fields and the pink sky.

Father Giffley made his way up the lane again. The wasps were still busy about the hedges, the blackberries shone in the evening light. He could hear still the never-ceasing movement of the sea.

Gill & Macmillan

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© James Plunkett 1969, 2006, 2012

First edition published by Century 1969

First published by Gill & Macmillan 2006

This ebook edition first published by Gill & Macmillan 2012

978 07171 4058 9 (print)

978 07171 5565 1 (epub)

978 07171 5566 8 (mobi)

Cover design by Sin É Design

Cover photographs: David Kelly as Rashers and Brendan Cauldwell as Hennessy © RTÉ Stills Library; Dublin © National Library of Ireland

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

The website addresses referred to in this book were correct at the time of first publication.

About the Author

The late James Plunkett drew on his city-centre working-class background, and his commitment to the labour movement, as the background for his fiction. Strumpet City is acknowledged as his masterpiece. His other novels include Farewell Companions and The Circus Animals . He was an accomplished short-story writer and also wrote for radio and theatre.

About Gill & Macmillan

Gill & Macmillan’s story begins in 1856 when Michael Henry Gill, then printer for Dublin University, purchased the publishing and bookselling business of James McGlashan, forming McGlashan & Gill. Some years later, in 1875, the company name was changed to M.H. Gill & Son. Gill & Macmillan as we know it today was established in 1968 as a result of an association with Macmillan of London. There was also a bookshop, popularly known as Gills, located on Dublin’s O’Connell Street for 123 years until it eventually closed in 1979. Today our bookshop can be found online at www.gillmacmillanbooks.ie.