Читать книгу Ireland in Travail - Sydney Loch - Страница 7

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Three days later we took up our abode with Mrs. Slaney.

She directed our arrival. She was like a busy bird on several twigs. She did not seem able to keep away.

The flat had been imperfectly cleaned; the curtains had been imperfectly put up; the window-cleaner had not come, but was coming at some date known only to himself; the door locks had not been mended.

“There are one or two little items I’ve overlooked,” Mrs. Slaney said. “I make a small charge for cleaning the front hall. I allow Mrs. O’Grady a little extra for that; and there’s coal and light.”

She looked at me uncertainly; but I was not prepared to do battle.

“Mrs. O’Grady hadn’t time to clean the fireplace to-day,” she said. “She’ll do it to-morrow. I’ve had the walls brushed down. Well,” she next said regretfully, “I mustn’t disturb you. Let me know if you want anything.”

She got as far as the door, then she burst out—

“Look at what the blackguards are doing to the Lord Mayor of Cork! What do you think now of Lloyd George and Hamar Greenwood and their lie factory, starving all those splendid young Irishmen to death in Brixton and in Cork? What must decent Englishmen think?”

I quailed under her eye.

“It’s deliberate, cold-blooded murder. I was a loyalist before 1916. The murder of those splendid young fellows by the British Government after the rebellion caused a thrill of horror through the whole country. Why can’t England leave Ireland alone?”

“It’s a long story,” said Himself.

“A long story! It’s shameful! And all the talk of the rights of small nations.” She quieted a little, and said, “We must have some little talks in the evening. I’ll get Father Murphy to come round. He’s just had Father O’Hara from Cork staying with him, and he’ll be able to give us a little of the truth of what’s going on. Now I must say good-bye.”

This time Mrs. Slaney was as good as her word. I looked round, and found Himself in a trance.

“I wish the doors would lock,” I said bleakly. “Mrs. O’Grady tells me the house is full. I hate the idea of people being able to come in and out as they please. Especially when we’re in bed.”

“No one will hurt you.”

“I hate the feeling that they can prowl in and out. It’s not much to ask that the doors are fixed up.”

There was a timid knock. “Come in,” I said.

A spikey little girl of fourteen or fifteen came in.

“Who are you?”

“Please, mum, I’m Polly, the housemaid. Mrs. O’Grady wants to know if you want your dinner at half seven.”

“Yes, Polly.”

“Well, it’s half six now, and it’s done, and Mrs. O’Grady wants to know what she’ll do with it.”

“Let it go for to-night,” said Himself.

“Bring it in now. But do remember half-past seven in future.”

“We’ll go for a long walk afterwards,” said Himself, trying to cheer me up. “It looks rather interesting along the canal.”

We moved mournfully towards the room where our meals were to be served.

“You’ll have all you want,” Mrs. O’Grady said, cheerfully dusting a small plate with her apron. “The little bell’s lost, but you may call from the top of the stairs.”

“It’s very early for dinner,” I said severely.

Mrs. O’Grady sniffed. “It’s this way,” she said. “That girl’s bad with her feet. It comes from running up and down all day for the woman upstairs and wearing fashionable boots. I sez to her, it do be to bed you should be going, and it is the lady who has just moved into the drawing-room flat is the grand lady, and will not be after keeping you.’”

“She should stay away until she’s better,” I said decidedly.

“It’d be a charity,” declared Mrs. O’Grady, earnestly, but with no sincerity. “But these stairs do be terrible on my legs.”

She threw up her hands and withdrew.

Himself was gazing into the soup like Mélisande. I, being a philosopher, started on mine at once.