Strumpet City by James Plunkett Read Free Book Online Page A

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 .
    They looked up at the sky for some time. Now and then one or the other made an exclamation of admiration. The multicoloured fireworks traced elaborate patterns above the garden. Now and then one burst with a brilliant blooming and sent a joyful cascade of light pouring through the sky, lighting up the garden and picking out the upturned faces of the men: Father O’Connor, young, almost childish, frankly enjoying it; Mr. Yearling, with his great, bushy eyebrows, his long neck, his tall, spare figure and greying hair, smiling; her husband, thin, not quite as tall as Mr. Yearling, interested but unsmiling. There was something boyish about the three of them. Mrs. Bradshaw felt the moment keenly, felt the night about her, felt the soft dark air of the garden, felt the extra touch of excitement which had become part of the day itself. She sighed. The moment filled her with an oppressive sense of mortality. She wanted to leave the garden and get back into the house, to feel its four walls putting comfortable bounds to a world which was too wide and careless to hold intact for any certain period the happiness it now and then offered. She shivered and the others noticed.
    ‘We mustn’t detain you,’ Mr. Yearling said.
    They took their leave and went out through the gate. Mr. Bradshaw put the heavy chain on the hall door and began his nightly task of winding each of the clocks.
    The rockets made a playground of the sky for an hour on end, while Mary watched from her bedroom window, thinking of Fitz, speaking silent messages to him, living again the moments of their day together. As they burst and drew successive cheers from the watching crowds, Death kept its ordained appointment with the little boy in his strange hospital bed. The night sergeant suffered the news quietly. He had been expecting it since early evening. Rashers, exhausted by the day, sat on his straw bed in the dark and told the dog about him.
    ‘He was kind, Rusty,’ he said. ‘Imagine that. I met a kind sergeant today, the first kind policeman in history.’
    The dog raised itself in response to Rashers’ voice, placed its paws on Rashers’ knees and, sniffing delicately, began to lick the dried blood on the side of his face.

C HAPTER T WO
    On Thursday, the eleventh day of July 1907, King Edward honoured the races at Leopardstown with his royal presence and on Friday 12th he sailed away, leaving behind him a genteel glow of goodwill and friendliness, marred only by a piece of gossip which turned out eventually to be true. Mr. William Martin Murphy, Chairman of the Exhibition Committee, owner of Independent Newspapers, a large drapery business and a hotel, controlling director of the Dublin Tramway Company and several other large-scale ventures, had refused a knighthood at the opening of the exhibition. Yearling, who was in intimate contact with the