James Plunkett - Strumpet City

‘Why did you do that?’

‘I thought of a lonely old woman.’

‘Who?’

‘Miss Gilchrist. I wonder if she is still with Mrs. Bradshaw.’

‘What made you think of her?’

‘Just before I left them she was sick and I often sat in front of the fire in her room. She told me to stick to service.’

‘Why did she want you to do that?’

Mary smiled. ‘I think she loved someone years and years ago. And because she never married she consoled herself that being in service in a good house was the best thing, after all.’

‘Have you missed it?’

‘What was there to miss?’

‘Practically everything people fight each other for: good food and comfortable houses.’

Mary looked about her at the room.

‘I think I like this place better.’

‘The pay isn’t quite so good,’ Fitz said.

Mary smiled and said:

‘The duties are lighter.’

‘That’s true. Not so much silver to be polished.’

‘And the meals won’t be such a problem.’

‘No.’

‘But I’ll make up by brushing your clothes every morning.’

‘That won’t be much of a problem either.’

‘Then I’ll mend your broken socks.’

‘That might take longer.’

‘And answer the door.’

‘That seems to settle everything.’

‘You’re satisfied?’

He took her in his arms.

‘How long are you likely to stay?’

‘Until I’m as old as Miss Gilchrist,’ she answered.

After a while he released her and she rose, made a paper spill and began to light the lamp. He watched her. She removed the globe, trimmed the wick and touched it with the flame. Then she replaced the globe. He wondered, as she leaned over to set the lamp on the table, how often in the course of their life together she would go through the same routine. How often would he sit and admire without speaking her dark hair showing its lustre in the lamplight and worship her face that was fine-boned and beautiful. It made him sad to have so little to offer to her, to think even that little should be so insecure.

‘Your friend Pat is comical,’ he heard her saying. Fitz noticed that they had reversed moods and thought of the two figures on some novelty clocks he had seen in Moore Street. When one came out the other went in; he remembered from childhood that they were fine-weather-and-foul-weather-never-seen-together.

‘He has great heart,’ he agreed.

Pat had acted as best man. He paid for a cab from the church to the Farrells’ cottage and after breakfast he had pressed a sovereign into Fitz’s hand. Fitz, wondering at his sudden wealth, guessed that he had had a stroke of unusually good luck at the horses. But he had found no opportunity to ask.

‘Is he wild?’ Mary asked.

‘A bachelor and fancy free.’

‘He seemed to have plenty of money.’

It’s some windfall or other,’ Fitz said, ‘most of the time he hasn’t a cigarette.’

‘He needs a woman’s hand,’ Mary said. ‘You’d think he’d have a girl friend.’

‘He has,’ Fitz said. And then, as an afterthought he added, ‘A sort of a one.’

‘Who is she?’

‘A girl named Lily Maxwell. When Pat knocks himself about in a spree he usually ends up in her room. She looks after him.’

At eight o’clock the Mulhalls arrived and by nine they had been joined by Mr. and Mrs. Farrell. Joe came later and later still Pat surprised them by arriving in presentable shape. He had a heavy parcel which he immediately deposited in a corner, and a bottle of whiskey which he pressed into Fitz’s hands.

‘There’s my welcome,’ he whispered. The local publican had loaned glasses. Fitz offered port to the women. The men played their expected part by pressing them and coaxing them. Mrs. Farrell gave in first, remarking that she would be a long time dead. Mrs. Mulhall also agreed, on condition that Mary did likewise. When everybody had a full glass Pat proposed the toast of the bride and groom and after that there was no further reluctance.

An hour later Rashers paused on the steps and looked up at the lighted windows. Pat’s voice drifted into the dark street, his song winding past gas-lamps and growing faint and being swallowed altogether in other sounds. He was singing ‘Comrades’.

‘Comrades, comrades ever since we were boys

Sharing each other’s troubles, sharing each other’s joys.’

Rashers, conscious suddenly of the emptiness of the street, looked down sadly at his dog and petted it before going in. Mrs. Mulhall, troubled by some memory or other, wept a little as she listened.

‘That was lovely,’ she said, when Pat had finished.

‘Hasn’t he a grand voice altogether,’ Mrs. Farrell remarked.

‘He’d draw tears from a glass eye,’ Joe said.

‘A few bars from yourself, ma’am,’ Pat invited. But Mrs. Mulhall said she had no voice.

‘You’ve voice enough when it comes to giving out the pay to me,’ Mulhall assured her.

Everybody took a hand in encouraging her and at last she gave in and began to sing ‘If I were a Blackbird’. Her voice was thin and had a quiver in it, but Mulhall regarded her with a proud look. They were a kindly couple, Fitz thought, unbroken by hardship. He hoped he would reach Mulhall’s age with as much of his courage and his world intact.

When the song finished Fitz raised his glass and said: ‘Here’s to ninepence an hour.’

Mulhall, delighted, repeated ‘Ninepence an hour’ and drank.

‘How is it going?’ Farrell asked.

‘They’re marking time,’ Pat said. He was elaborately complacent.

‘Larkin wrote and said we won’t deliver to the foundry,’ Mulhall explained. ‘We’ve heard nothing more since.’

‘They haven’t paid,’ Joe put in.

‘Any day now they’ll load us and tell us to deliver to the foundry. We’ll all refuse.’

‘Amen,’ Pat said.

‘If they lock you out we’ll stand by you on the quays,’ Farrell said.

‘I wonder,’ Mulhall said, challenging him.

‘It’s a certainty,’ Farrell assured him.

‘That’s worth drinking to,’ Pat declared.

‘I’m sure Mrs. Fitzpatrick doesn’t want to begin married life with a session about strikes,’ Mrs. Farrell protested.

‘I’m not listening,’ Mary said lightly.

She was making tea. There was something about her which set her apart from the others, a way of moving, of lifting things, of using her features and varying her intonation when she spoke.

‘That’s the proper way to treat them,’ Mrs. Farrell agreed, ‘don’t listen.’

The women were having tea and cake when Hennessy tapped at the door. Fitz invited him in. He stood uncertainly and said to Mrs. Mulhall:

‘I was knocking at your room, ma’am, this while back. Then I chanced to hear the voices and guessed you might be here.’

Is there something I can get you?’

‘Herself was wondering if you’d oblige her with the loan of a cup of sugar.’

Mrs. Mulhall rose, but Fitz looked at Mary and she went to the cupboard.

‘I hesitate to trouble you . . .’ Hennessy protested.

‘We have it to spare,’ Mary assured him.

Fitz invited Hennessy to drink and he sat down.

‘My respects and wishes for a long and happy life,’ he toasted.

‘How is the work with you?’ Mulhall asked.

‘Not too bad,’ Hennessy said. ‘I’ve landed a bit of a watching job. Three nights a week.’

‘You’re a great man at the watching.’

‘I’ve a natural gift for it,’ Hennessy said. Then he added: ‘I suppose you all heard about Rashers and his stroke of fortune?’

‘What was that?’

‘He swears he owes it all to yourself, ma’am.’

Mary, finding the voice directed at her, put down the cup of sugar.