Читать книгу Ireland in Travail - Sydney Loch - Страница 6

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Next morning Himself and I breakfasted early and went flat hunting. We went light-heartedly, not knowing what was before us. I had started with some idea of comfort and cleanliness: I had made up my mind that my life should be comfortable as well as interesting. But that dream was soon dispelled. The flats we saw had never seen brooms since the days of Cuchulan, a man the Irish are very fond of. We were eyed up and down by frowsy maids and dilapidated landladies.

“God knows where we’ll end if we get into any of these!” Himself exclaimed, in the middle of the hunt.

“Now, look here, my poor husband, we must get a flat. It’s the basements that have put us off. Don’t let’s look at basements, let’s just see the possibility of soap and water.”

“That’s a good idea; but what shall we let ourselves in for?”

“We’ve got to die somehow some day.”

We walked along a street in the neighbourhood of Stephen’s Green. Somewhere about the middle, on the right-hand side, a cab was drawn up, and luggage was being brought out by a bibulous-looking cabman.

“That looks hopeful,” Himself said. “Some one is clearing out.”

We mounted the steps before the door was shut.

A middle-aged servant stood on the top step, directing the cabman with his last load. She had black hair, an apron, sand-shoes—they had started life white—and her sleeves were rolled up.

“Are there any flats to let here?” I asked hurriedly.

Before replying, she looked us up and down in the Irish way.

“There are,” she said, at last. “There do be two, and some one’s just after leaving now.”

“Can we see any one?”

“You can. Mrs. Slaney’s upstairs.”

We went inside.

The hall floor was depressing. The stair rods endangered our ascent. The stair carpet had once been red.

“I’ve not been able to sweep to-day,” said the servant. “The mistress was after giving the loan of the broom next door, and it hasn’t come back yet.”

“Mrs. O’Grady! Mrs. O’Grady!” screamed some one below us. “When do I put the pudden in?”

“Such a girl!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Grady. “She is like a headless cock! It’s half-four now,” she answered. “Use your head! That girl!” she exclaimed to me indignantly, “she doesn’t know the clock. Here you are, mum, a party to see the rooms.”

Mrs. Slaney sat with her back to the door, trimming a hat. Her mouth was full of pins. There were drying bulbs spread out on newspapers over the floor.

“Have you a flat to let?” I asked, as she got up from the chair and came towards us.

“Rooms to let,” she corrected with a smile. “Yes, I have rooms to let.” She eyed the creases in Himself’s trousers. “You’re English? What are you doing in Ireland?” She tried to question us pleasantly. “You’re army, of course? I don’t know that I’d care to let my rooms to army people.”

“We are not army people,” I assured her. “Nothing to do with it.”

“You can’t be too careful,” declared Mrs. Slaney. “I’m sure you’ll understand that. Most of the army people are doing spy work now. At one time they were all right; but that was before the war. They were gentlemen then.”

“I can give you references,” I said.

We sat down.

She returned to her chair and faced us. Himself’s hand strayed to a book, and he picked it up.

“The Evolution of Sinn Fein?” he read. “You’re interested in Sinn Fein, Mrs. Slaney?”

“I am,” she said emphatically. “Everybody in Ireland is since we were terrorised by the English army. I’m a Sinn Feiner, and I have been for some time. It is monstrous what England is doing! Monstrous! Ireland will never forget it. Look at all those young fellows that England is murdering. The flower of Ireland! Look at what she’s doing to-day!”

“I’m English, as much as I’m anything else,” said Himself slowly. “I’m full-blooded British anyway. But I’m interested in Sinn Fein, genuinely interested.”

“Then you’ll see things here that will make your blood boil. Thank God, my son didn’t die in France! How England clamoured about the rights of small nations.”

“It’s a great pity that there is this feeling,” said Himself lamely. “After all, the British Isles are one geographically. They should be friends.”

Mrs. Slaney snorted.

“Friends! Ireland can never be friendly. Ireland can’t forget. Look how she has been treated. Look what Cromwell did. Look at last Thursday. They arrest the Lord Mayor of Cork—a perfectly innocent man. I suppose they’ll treat him the same as Lord Mayor MacCurtain.”

“I thought the papers said the Lord Mayor was presiding over an illegal court, and that a stolen police cypher was found, and—oh, lots of other things,” I ventured.

“Nonsense! That’s Hamar Greenwood and his lie factory. I was talking to Father Murphy, who tells me the Lord Mayor is a perfectly innocent man. And, look, only the other night those soldiers ran amok on the quays. They’re here to terrorise the citizens. But you want to see the rooms?”

“I would like to.”

We went downstairs. Mrs. Slaney trotted busily a pace or two ahead.

“This is the flat.” She opened a door leading into a sitting-room.

“Nice and airy,” she declared, bustling towards a window, and vainly trying to put it up. “I must get that sash fixed. There’s a bedroom at the back, and the use of a bathroom.”

“How much?” I asked, in a faltering voice.

“Three guineas. I give services for that, too. It’s cheaper than most flats, and the best situation in Dublin. So near the Green.”

“What are the services?”

“Mrs. O’Grady is a very good cook—that goes without saying; and there is a housemaid as well. You dine at night, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like dinner served much after seven. There’s Mrs. O’Grady to consider.”

“It’s early,” I said dubiously, “but I see you must consider the servants. We might think about these rooms.”

“I’m afraid you must make up your minds about them soon. I have several people after them. Rooms are scarce now.”

“I vote we take them,” said Himself. “You’ll have them properly cleaned up for us?”

“Of course,” smiled Mrs. Slaney. “I am always most particular about cleanliness. You’ll want them in a few days, I suppose? I can set Mrs. O’Grady to work to-morrow, and I’ll have the curtains taken down and the windows cleaned. You could come in the day after.”

Himself tried the door.

“The locks are out of order,” he said.

“They are,” Mrs. Slaney agreed; “but no one bothers about locks here. We’re all friends. I’ve always tried to keep that atmosphere in the house. We need no locks. Until this trouble began, there was not a more crimeless country than Ireland. The front door has never been locked at night since I came into the house.”

“I should like these doors to lock,” I said sharply. “After all, I understand that the Black-and-Tans raid frequently. It’s not nice to feel that they can walk in without warning.”

“We can find you keys, of course.” She soothed me like a child. “You’ll come, then, the day after to-morrow?”

“I’ll look in to-morrow, probably, to see what I shall want in the way of odds and ends, and perhaps some of the luggage could come. The heavy stuff has been at the station all this time.”

“You’ll like Ireland,” said Mrs. Slaney to Himself, ignoring my suggestion about the luggage. “You’ll find nothing but kindness in the South. You must go to the North for bitterness. It’s wonderful, the patience of the Southerners; they’ve suffered so much and so long. Eight hundred years! But at last it has burst out. It couldn’t be bottled up any longer. Your blood must boil at the wrongs of Ireland.”

“I must hear all you’ve got to say later.”

“Yes. I expect you’ll be more Irish than the Irish after a few months. It is always like that with the English who come here. Are you passing a pillar-box? I’ll get you to post a letter as you go out. It will save me a journey. I haven’t a stamp in the house, by the way; but you might perhaps put one on, and we’ll make it right next time.”