Strumpet City (5 page)

He hobbled down the street. The sergeant clutched the colours tightly and stared at the street without seeing it. He went back into his office and let the colours fall into the fireplace, to take their place among the dust and cartons and the pile of cigarette stubs.

‘They returned by motor,’ Mr. Belton Yearling informed the company.

‘I was fortunate enough to see them. At a distance, of course,’ Father O’Connor volunteered.

‘Are they dining aboard the royal yacht?’ asked Mrs. Bradshaw.

‘Yes. With his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant and Lady Aberdeen.’ Mr. Yearling’s tone was tinged a little with disrespect. ‘Such a strenuous day for the Queen and the young princess.’

‘I hope we have finished with salutes, anyway,’ Mr. Bradshaw said grumpily. ‘I can’t abide them.’

Mrs. Bradshaw smiled at everybody. The meal had been excellent. Young Father O’Connor, though normally abstemious, had consented to a glass of port after it, in honour of the occasion, and when they retired for music Mr. Yearling’s first request had been for Sinding’s ‘Rustle of Spring’, a piece she was just a little bit afraid of, but which she had managed to play surprisingly well. She flushed with pleasure at their compliments, the more so because, in all modesty, she felt them at that moment to be well deserved. Mr. Yearling had responded on the ’cello with Mendelssohn’s ‘On Wings of Song’ and she accompanied with exquisite sympathy. He played beautifully so that even Mr. Bradshaw was moved at the end to say:

‘Dammit, Belton, you have wonderful warmth and tone tonight. You surpassed yourself.’

Mr. Yearling was refreshing himself with a glass of whiskey.

Although the evening was warm she had had a fire lit, not only as a courtesy to the company but because a room without a fire made her restless. She loved to see its light flickering on the walls and shining on the glasses and glowing deeply in the rich varnish of Mr. Yearling’s ’cello. Through the french windows she watched the last light lingering on the lawn, giving the grass a reddish tint and picking out the contrasting colours of the flowers. The laburnum at the end, in full flower, glowed deeply yellow, its base encircled by fallen blossoms. She had remarked that it had been a beautiful day for the royal pair and that had drawn the information from Mr. Yearling about the manner of their return.

‘Let’s hope they don’t go to Belfast,’ Mr. Yearling added, when he had finished his whiskey.

‘Why not, Belton?’ Mr. Bradshaw asked.

‘This fellow Larkin has the city in a state of revolution.’

‘Of course,’ Mr. Bradshaw admitted. He had questioned without thinking very deeply about what he was saying.

‘The military are camped in the main streets,’ Father O’Connor contributed.

‘They mean business too. They fired on the strikers the other day.’

‘There have been deaths,’ Father O’Connor reminded them. ‘It is so very regrettable.’

‘Hope he keeps away from Dublin,’ Mr. Bradshaw said.

‘He will, because he’ll be broken,’ Mr. Yearling assured him. ‘If our chaps don’t do it his own people will. Sexton has threatened to expel him.’

‘Who’s Sexton?’ Father O’Connor asked.

‘The general secretary of the union Larkin represents. Apparently Larkin called this strike without the sanction of the union executive. From his speeches he seems to be a law unto himself.’

‘It’s a pity it should be necessary,’ Father O’Connor said.

The company looked at him curiously. Father O’Connor flushed. He was quite young.

‘Don’t misunderstand me—I am totally against Mr. Larkin’s outrageous methods. He seems to me to be little better than a socialist. But I understand conditions are very, very bad in Belfast.’

Mr. Yearling surprised everybody by saying:

‘They are very bad in Dublin too.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mr. Bradshaw said, rudely.

‘Ralph,’ Mrs. Bradshaw reproved him.

‘Sorry. But you surprise me, Belton.’

‘Facts,’ Mr. Yearling insisted, sticking to his guns.

‘I think we should have a little music,’ Mrs. Bradshaw suggested. She smiled at Father O’Connor. ‘You haven’t done anything for us, Father.’

‘Of course,’ the others agreed.

Father O’Connor opened his music case and selected a piece which he handed to Mrs. Bradshaw. She went to the piano.

‘What is it, Father?’

‘“Ave Maria”,’ Mrs. Bradshaw answered, smoothing the sheets.

‘Schubert or Gounod?’

‘Actually,’ Father O’Connor said, a little apologetically, ‘it’s by Locatelli.’

Behind Father O’Connor’s back Mr. Yearling’s bushy eyebrows arched enquiringly at Mr. Bradshaw. Mr. Bradshaw shrugged his ignorance of the piece and Mr. Yearling acknowledged with a nod. Neither was enthusiastic. They felt the priest’s selection was in dubious taste. A social evening should be kept strictly secular. Besides, Mr. Yearling was a Protestant.

Father O’Connor sang pleasantly, if a little bit too sweetly. His voice had a touch of vibrato, poorly controlled. Still, he knew something about music generally: he could sight read quite well too.

‘Bravo,’ Mr. Bradshaw said when he had finished.

‘I’m not of your persuasion, Father, but I think the “Ave Maria” is a very beautiful prayer,’ Mr. Yearling contributed.

Everybody thought it uncommonly handsome of him, a further proof of his offhanded generosity and tolerance. Mr. Bradshaw pressed him to another liberal measure of whiskey. Father O’Connor declined a glass of port; Mr. Bradshaw helped himself instead.

“You’ve had the training, Father,’ he said.

‘In the seminary we were allowed to study music.’

‘One can hear it in the voice. It’s unmistakable.’

‘The training, yes,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘but not the equipment.’ He laughed. He was a genuinely modest man.

‘I know now what keeps you in Kingstown,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said, smiling affectionately at him. ‘You love training our church choir.’

‘Have you chaps a choice?’ Mr. Yearling asked. ‘I mean, about where you are going to be stationed?’

‘Oh no,’ Mr. Bradshaw explained, ‘a priest must go where he’s sent. It’s part of the rule of obedience.’

‘We can apply for special work,’ Father O’Connor added.

The friendly interest of the company focussed on him and he responded to it before he quite realised it.

‘As a matter of fact, I may be leaving Kingstown shortly.’

‘Oh no,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.

‘I’ve asked to be transferred to a poor parish. I’d like to work among the poor.’

He discovered too late that he had embarrassed the company. He became embarrassed himself. He plunged on.

‘My mother had a great devotion to St. Vincent de Paul, you see, and she encouraged it in me too.’

‘Is that why you were christened . . . ?’

Mr. Yearling, not certain of the propriety of mentioning a priest’s Christian name, left his sentence unfinished.

‘Yes. I was called Vincent,’ Father O’Connor said.

‘We would be very sorry to lose you,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.

‘Perhaps you won’t,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘perhaps I have not the ability.’

It was obvious that he was not anxious to say any more. He looked across at Mr. Bradshaw.

‘Isn’t it time our host obliged?’ he suggested generally.

Mr. Bradshaw rose and looked for suggestions to his wife. She said:

‘The policeman’s song from
The Pirates.
’

Mr. Yearling laughed and said:

‘Well, that’s topical enough anyway. I see Mr. Larkin has the police going on strike in Belfast too.’

Everybody enjoyed the joke except Mrs. Bradshaw, who did not follow the reference. Mr. Yearling explained to her that Larkin had spoken to the policemen who were keeping his strikers in order and had told them that they were not being paid enough for their heavy duties. He had roused them to such a pitch of resentment that the police were threatening to go on strike too.

‘That’s why the Chief Secretary asked for the help of the military,’ Mr. Bradshaw put in.

Mrs. Bradshaw said Larkin must be a remarkable strike leader. It all sounded fantastic.

‘Gilbertian,’ Mr. Yearling roared, in sudden inspiration. Everybody laughed aloud and as a result of his aptness Mr. Bradshaw’s rendering of ‘A Policeman’s Lot’ was punctuated all the time by smiles and laughter.

‘We really must be serious,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said when it was over.

‘Very well,’ said Father O’Connor, ‘why not something from
The Yeomen of the Guard
?’

‘Yes,’ Mr. Yearling said, ‘why shouldn’t we too introduce the military.’

But Father O’Connor, having acknowledged the quip, went on to deal seriously with the opera he had mentioned. He said he had always felt that
The Yeomen of the Guard
contained Sullivan’s best music. The rest agreed. Mr. Yearling praised Sullivan’s setting for ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. Mr. Bradshaw drew attention to the musical excellence of ‘The Lost Chord’.

‘How long is it since he died?’ Mr. Yearling tried to remember.

‘Seven years,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.

‘It doesn’t seem that long, really.’

‘Florence is right,’ Mr. Bradshaw said. ‘It was in 1900. I remember now.’

‘We can be proud that he was an Irishman,’ Father O’Connor said.

Mr. Bradshaw liked strict accuracy. ‘Well, the son of an Irishman—an Irish bandsman.’

When he died he was Sir Arthur Sullivan. Mrs. Bradshaw said she thought it wonderful that a humble youth should reach such heights.

‘He had the divine gift,’ Mr. Yearling pronounced solemnly. ‘The gift of music. What are we others, after all, but penpushers. Directors, property owners, public servants, nothing but glorified nonentities. One of us dies and the world is still the same. Sullivan dies—and the world is the poorer until God permits another genius to come and walk among us.’

This time he helped himself to the whiskey decanter uninvited and poured a large measure.

‘The song,’ Mr. Bradshaw said, uneasily.

Mr. Yearling suggested the introduction to the second act which contained a sombre opening for the ’cello, but little else that the company could manage satisfactorily, because of the disposition of the voices and the fact that it required a chorus too. Father O’Connor came out best, with a moving interpretation of ‘Is Life a Boon?’ Mr. Bradshaw remained silent but Mr. Yearling supplied an obbligato on the ’cello. Then Mrs. Bradshaw, knowing how much her husband enjoyed singing and not wishing him to feel neglected, closed the score and produced a volume of Moore’s melodies which contained duets which occupied everybody, the priest and Mr. Bradshaw on the voice parts, accompanied by piano and Mr. Yearling’s clever ’cello improvisations. Then she asked if it was time for soup. The men searched for their watches. As Father O’Connor produced his, Mr. Bradshaw thought he heard something fall.

‘Have you dropped something, Father?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Father O’Connor replied. They scanned the carpet mutually but could see nothing. Mrs. Bradshaw rang and Mary served them with soup. They sat around, informally conversing.

‘Your “Is Life a Boon?” revived some happy memories for me tonight, Father,’ Mr. Yearling said sadly. They looked at him with polite interest.

‘I was at one of the first performances of
The Yeomen
in the Savoy. George Grossmith sang Jack Point and Courtice Pounds was Fairfax. That was nearly twenty years ago.’

‘Is it so long?’ Mr. Bradshaw said.

‘It is, Ralph, October 1888. I was a young dog on my first visit to London. Wonderful. And a pretty girl with me too.’ He turned particularly to Father O’Connor. ‘All very correct and everything in order, Father, no wild oats or that sort of thing.’

‘Of course,’ Father O’Connor said quickly, but modulating his tone to convey a reminder of Mrs. Bradshaw’s presence.

‘Truth is, I was madly in love with her.’

‘But you didn’t marry her?’ Mrs. Bradshaw asked, allowing herself to betray a woman’s curiosity.

‘She wouldn’t have me, ma’am,’ Mr. Yearling confessed. He turned to Mr. Bradshaw. ‘You know, Ralph, we Irish chaps don’t stand much chance against the fellows over there. We think we have polish, poise, elegance, but in thirty minutes at the smallest social gathering the British fellow has us completely outclassed.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mr. Bradshaw protested.

‘It’s true, Ralph. And I’ll tell you why. Gentility, manners, social behaviour, they’re all part of a game, a sort of national game which is played to different rules in different countries. The British play their own game best because they’ve made the rules to suit the British temperament and the British climate.’

‘I don’t see the difference,’ Mr. Bradshaw said. He had taken up the decanter again and was handing Mr. Yearling his glass. Mr. Yearling raised it and looked around at everybody.

‘There’s part of the difference,’ he said sadly, indicating the golden spirit. ‘I won’t embarrass your good wife with the grisly details.’

Mrs. Bradshaw smiled her gentle smile as he threw back his head and swallowed. She knew his weakness and could guess that it had once, perhaps, been a wildness. She thought, a little wistfully, that a touch of human weakness in her husband would have been nice, her husband who was so good but at times so meticulous, at times so grumpy with rectitude. She rang for Mary to take the plates and said: ‘You may go to bed as soon as you have cleared away. Leave whatever is inessential until morning.’

The company rose and Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw accompanied them into the garden. The night air was mild and perfumed with mown grass and flowers. A rocket sailed upwards in a bright parabola and burst brilliantly above their heads. They gasped with surprise. ‘What on earth . . .?’ Mr. Bradshaw exclaimed.

Mrs. Bradshaw remembered.

‘It’s the firework display at the Pavilion.’

‘Ah, of course,’ Mr. Yearling said.

She remembered the notice in the paper that morning which had advertised the attractions.

‘Grand Illumination of the Bldgs & Gardens by Brock. Grand Display of Fireworks. Portraits of Their Majesties. Bands, pipers, sword dancing. Torchlight procession in the gardens. Illuminations of The Fleet.’
Russel Rosse and company were playing
Arabian Nights
.