One by one his mates all patted his back and left the changing room for serious celebration until only Jeremy and Robin remained.
"On with you both," Conor insisted. "I'll catch up."
They left, too, and what light remained turned that sickening gray-black. He continued to sit with his face in his hands staring at nothing. The aged changing-room keeper picked up towels, groaning, and cursed the mess and swabbed a floor which was as bent and creaking as himself.
Conor wove to the tubs and swabbed himself off in cold water.
The old man continued to complain that his work was never done and now there was yet another mess to clean, then he caught sight of Conor's forehead.
"Oh, matey," he said, "that's a nasty bash you got Say, you're the Blacksmith, are you not?"
"I'm the Blacksmith," Conor whispered.
*
Conor caught up with the festivities at the Old India House and for a moment he allowed himself to be swallowed up by adulation and drinks. The pub was flooded with songs, Leeds songs, Belfast songs, smutty music hall songs, mining songs, sentimental Irish songs.
Then, as always, the Catholic lads filtered off to their own, those little Irishtowns that existed in the inner core of destitution. The Chapel Town and Quarry Hill pubs were opened for their heroes.
Jeremy Hubble protested all the way back to the hotel to no avail and Conor continued on to Tooley's public house to accept the accolades of his countrymen. The Blacksmith had come to visit, an occasion that would be long remembered and re-remembered to ease the sordidness of their existence.
Duffy O'Hurley, Doxie O'Brien and Calhoun Hanly held court in a corner of the pub. Duffy was strangely subdued, not his boisterous self, of this night. Conor's eyes met his over the din. Ever so slowly Duffy nodded yes and lifted his pint in a salute.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BRADFORD
Robin groped in the darkness, located the lamp and turned it on. Conor stood near the door buttoning up his pea coat. Robin propped up on an elbow, shook his head to erase the sleep and sighted in on his watch.
"I need some air," Conor said.
"Jeese, man, it's past eleven. We've got a bloody game to play tomorrow."
"I know. I'll not be long."
Robin bolted awake, throwing off the covers and sitting on the bed edge. "Hey, Conor, what's eating you? You've been a real slooter for the past three days."
"Just roll over and go back to sleep."
"Anything wrong in that letter from Shelley today?"
"Nothing!" Conor snapped.
"Jeese. . ."
"Sorry . . . I'm just a little tense."
"Well, don't be late. We've a hard game."
A final hansom cab stood at the hotel entrance, both driver and horse sleeping at the ready. Conor nudged the man. The horse snorted.
"Where to, sir?"
"Up in the Wapping."
"Any place in particular?"
"No, just find a pub along the lower part of Boulton Road."
As they pulled away, Robin watched from three stories above. He let the curtain fall and shook his head curiously. What the hell, none of his business. Didn't seem likely he was fucking around on Shelley. The R.C.s were all funny about getting off by themselves. He crawled back into bed, doused the lamp and pulled the covers over him.
Conor dismissed the cab at the cathedral where Boulton Road joined Cheapside and continued by foot into the heartland of the Irishtown. They had fled the famine to Bradford in droves, going from nowhere to nowhere, the charwomen, washerwomen, hawkers, peddlers, miners, paupers, wool combers, navvies. Squalor begat degradation. It reeked.
A bobby came in his direction. "Excuse me. How do I find Wild Boar Road?"
"Five blocks up and on the right." "Thank you." Conor walked into growing quiet until he was alone with the street lamps and little more. He came to the short street, sucked in a breath and wavered, looking behind him for the tenth time. There was activity up the block, a light and some people moving about. He braced himself, walked for it, then stopped directly across from Callaghan's Funeral Parlor. A traffic of black-kerchiefed female mourners and capped workingmen moved in and out past the curtained window front.
Conor crossed-the street and stepped inside.
They were on their knees praying around the earthly remains of Vincent O'Cooney, late of County Cork, God rest his soul. Vincent O'Cooney, killed in a mine shaft at thirty-two, leaving his widow, Mary, and nine kids.
The room was afloat in candle shadows casting off the stony faces of the kneeled worshipers. A timeworn priest granted uninspired sympathy. There was little weeping or wailing. They were too weary.
"Are you a friend of the deceased?"
"I only knew him slightly," Conor said. He looked about trying to spot the one who might be Callaghan, then slipped to his knees and joined the rosary. His eyes continued to search the faces. As the prayer came to an end, the rear door opened as if on signal and a man emerged. His vicuna morning coat was frayed and his pinstriped trousers shabbily in keeping with the neighborhood.
Almost everyone filed out into the night, leaving the widow to continue the waking. With the room nearly empty, Conor got to his feet, wiped a rush of perspiration from his face and walked to the mortician.
"Mr. Callaghan?" he said at last.
The man nodded. "You're a stranger here," he said.
"I, uh, was a friend of the deceased a time ago. This all came as a shock. I was just passing through Bradford and . . . uh . . . I heard about it at a pub . . ."
"Would you care to come into the back room and rest? You look done in," Callaghan said.
His lips went dry. For the first time in his life he felt faint, as though he would go down. Everything began to swim . . . Callaghan had his arm and led him toward the back.
Conor stopped. He turned and left the place at a half run.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A large number of Welshmen played on various teams in the Northern Rugby Union but had no professional teams of their own. After the regular season Sir Frederick arranged a pair of exhibition games between the Boilermakers and the rest of the Welsh players on an "all-star" club. Advertised as Ireland versus Wales, the matches took place in Swansea and Cardiff before overflow and delirious crowds. Although the Welshmen were superior on a man-to-man basis, the Boilermakers had played as a cohesive unit for years and won out handily in a pair of wild games.
The season had turned triumphant. Sir Frederick plunged into plans for professional tours to Australia, New Zealand and France, and argued in his convincing manner that Wales should join the Northern Rugby League with teams of its own.
With the tour done and a week's holiday coming up, Sir Frederick arranged a final bash. The celebration in league with fellow Welshmen took place in a posh hostelry in an area known as the Mumbles located midway between Thistleboon and Oystermouth on Swansea Bay. Conor left the festivities early in order to get a head start in the morning for the train to Liverpool to meet Shelley's boat. His ward, Lord Jeremy, was placed in Robin MacLeod's good hands.
At five in the morning Conor responded to a hammering on the door, staggering over the room in a state of grogginess. He opened it, saw his mate and his eyes widened. Robin MacLeod was a mess. Conor whisked him into the room and locked the door behind them.
"A slight altercation," Robin managed through puffed lips throwing off the pungent smells of overindulgence.
Conor marched him to the water stand, sponged him off and examined the severity of the damage.
"All right, what happened?"
"Well now, let me see now. I suppose you left the Lord Pembroke Hotel around the stroke of twelve, did you not . . . eh . . ."
"I did, indeed."
"Well now, let me see, now. There was a little something extra special laid on in one of the better houses of course … right in Thistleboon, if you please. So a number of us arrived with a number of the Welsh laddies. There was myself and Argyle and Big Brett a
nd O'Rourke and Clarke Oh, we was having a grand time. Everything was in a most dignified social manner . . ."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
"Anyhow, Brett latches onto this one, a real looker with tits like yeaaaaa and you know . . . well then . . . we all know how Brett behaves sometimes when he gets on the stuff . . . so after a time we all feel Big Brett should ought to be passing her round. And those Welsh lads can be particularly nasty. All of a sudden, dirty, rank nationalism creeps into an otherwise dignified assembly. And even though Big Brett is a loathesome son of a bitch, we have to defend him as a matter of Irish honor . . ." Robin said, collapsing on a chair.
Robin winced and gave off a cry as Conor cleaned out a deep cut.
"So there was a brawl," Conor said.
"Tore the fucking place apart. It was a donnybrook of monumental scope. Bodies flying, furniture smashing, the girls screaming. One of the most beautiful evenings I ever spent in my life. Anyhow . . . I was fortunate to make a successful exit just as the police arrived. I slipped back here undetected. I am afraid the others are being slightly detained," he groaned.
"That's Sir Frederick's problem."
Robin heaved a sigh of the ages and bowed his head. "I've got something important to tell you," he said.
"What else?"
"Well, let me see if I can explain it . . . you see . . . well now . . . there was someone else with us . . ."
Conor threw open the adjoining door. Jeremy was gone!
"You son of a bitch!"
"Now, now, Conor, lad. Now, now."
"You son of a bitch!"
"Let me say, with all the fervor I have in my breast, the lad did us proud. Punched one of those Welshmen silly. He was doing just fine, he was, all cuddled up with this here big blonde, happy as a hog in shit . . ."
"I'll kill you, Robin!"
"Now, Conor, I'm your mate. We are practically blood brothers. Just mind the temper, mind the temper."
"Where is he!"
"If you'll just put me down and calm yerself . . ."
*
"Viscount Coleraine nabbed in brothel brawl," Caroline read, trembling with rage. She flung the newspaper to the carpet and picked up another off the stack on the tea table. "His lordship's night on the town. Earl of Foyle heir loses teeth in predawn romp with ladies." Then another. "Lord Jeremy delivers knockout punch for mates."
Sir Frederick was unusually docile, slouched in an oversized chair at the far end of the parlor of the -hotel suite attempting to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, but to no avail, as Caroline waved a paper in his face.
"Look at this trash! Every cheap scandal sheet in the British Isles is full of it!"
"Yes, filthy business," Weed mumbled, "terrible, terrible journalism."
"Freddie, I am addressing you on your grandson's disgusting behavior!" Caroline said in something resembling a shriek.
"Storm in a teacup," Sir Frederick defended weakly.
She spun around to Jeremy, who stood on the sizzling carpet. "You are to tell me one more time exactly what happened and I want the truth. Your father has probably arrived and will be here directly. The truth, Jeremy, the truth!"
As Jeremy opened his mouth Caroline grimaced at the two missing teeth all nicely matched up with cut lip, black eye . . . to say nothing of bite and scratch marks she had found all over the boy's back and neck.
"The truth!" she snapped as he cleared his throat.
"Well, Mother, we were all dining together at the Lord Pembroke, just celebrating, good fellowship and all that, when the word passed about that some . . . well . . . some company had been arranged . . ."
"You mean whores," his mother said.
"Yes, uh, rather, one might say that. As the dinner broke up, Conor, Mr. Larkin, said, "Come on, runt . . ."
"He calls you runt?"
"A nickname, Mother. Said with affection. "Runt," Mr. Larkin says, 'time to shove off.’"
"Continue," Caroline snapped.
"Well, I told him I'd be right along with . . . with another member of the team . . ."
"Who?"
"Don't ask me to tattle."
"I said . . . who!"
"The captain, Mr. MacLeod."
"So Robin MacLeod took you to this party, is that it?"
"More or less. I found out where the party was to be and went back to our hotel, stuck my head in Conor's room, said good night, then slipped out and joined them."
"And you were subsequently dragged off in a police van like a common criminal at four in the morning . . . without trousers . . . bloody from head to foot. At least you could have gotten away when that disgusting brawl started."
"Well, Mother, one doesn't just run out on the team, does one?"
Caroline whipped around to Freddie, who was cowed in his chair. "He's lying in order not to implicate Mr. Conor Larkin."
"Mother, I'm not lying. Conor wouldn't stand for that sort of thing."
"It now also comes to my attention that Conor Larkin allowed you to consort with a prostitute in Hull, even transport her to Halifax. True or not true?"
"Well, not exactly, more or less, one might say," Sir Frederick mumbled.
"Did Conor Larkin allow you to consort with a whore for a period of several weeks?"
"It is true," Weed said. "Larkin came to me and told me Jeremy was wrapped up in a childish romance and was taking it seriously. We discussed the matter and decided to let it run its course. If we'd broken it up, there would have been all sorts of trouble with the boy."
"Grandfather is right," Jeremy said. "I thought I was in love. Conor, Mr. Larkin, let me show myself what a fool I was."
"Well . . . this was a grand tour, indeed," Caroline said. "And did he or did he not also allow you to drink your way through every public house in England?"
"Mother, I simply can't feel that Conor was responsible. I had two pints a night, no more. And he certainly can't be held responsible for me sneaking out on him . . . which was usually what I did."
"Send Mr. Larkin in!"
Conor answered the summons by going directly to Jeremy and examining the boy's wounds. Jeremy lowered his eyes in shame.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, shame, Jeremy," Conor sighed.
"Is this how you take the responsibility for a minor child?" Lady Caroline said with a voice quivering with anger.
Conor shrugged.
"Now just a moment, Caroline," Sir Frederick intervened. "It's obvious that Larkin had nothing to do with this incident."
"Oh, I see. All the stout chaps hanging in there together."
"If truth be known," he continued, "I was the one who arranged the late . . . er. . . celebrations."
"Freddie! You are despicable! And as for you, Mr. Larkin, you've a thing or two to answer for."
"Well, don't expect straight answers. As you well know, we are all psychopathic liars. If you'll excuse me."
"No," she commanded. "You are not excused." She marched to him, raised her hand and swung it. Conor reached up before the slap could connect, seized her wrist and gripped it hard enough to tell her she should go no further along that route.
"If you do that again," he said, "I'm going to paddle your backside right in front of your son and your father."
"Bravo, Larkin," Sir Frederick said.
He released a very astonished lady. The mask of rage dropped and she suddenly broke into uncontrolled laughter. "Oh, you're beautiful, Larkin!" she laughed, and then Sir Frederick darted out of his chair and joined the laughter. Slowly and awkwardly Jeremy shifted weight from foot to foot, flashed his teeth minus two and laughed and Conor laughed.
Caroline threw her arms about her son and wept.
"It's quite all right, Mother," Jeremy said, "and you'd be delighted at the way I bashed that one chap about Conor taught me how to throw short punches behind my body."
At that instant Roger Hubble appeared on the scene. One by one the laughter stopped as he stood in controlled disgust at the door. He looked from one to the other, imparting s
corn to each in turn. As icily as he had entered, so he turned to leave.
"Father!" Jeremy cried. The boy raced across the room and blocked the door. "Father," he whispered again, "Father."
Roger slapped him across the face and left.
"Jeremy!" his mother cried.
"Shouldn't have done that," Sir Frederick said harshly.
It was Conor Larkin the boy raced to for solace. He was embraced and comforted. "It's all right, runt, it's all right."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Blackpool was hauntingly devoid of life, leaving Shelley and Conor virtually alone on the long promenade with the sand and the sea and only the shrill cry of the gulls and the thump of the breakers. All of the uncertainties that had built up during the separation disappeared the instant they came together.
What had begun in Belfast took wing, ethereal wing, in the gray brooding place. They were neither alive nor dead, but suspended, out in infinity, a vast timeless space. They realized at once that this journey could go on forever, they could explore it together and never need to retrace their steps, for what was always ahead was endless love-making, each time new, each time completely different. Perhaps they were doing much of the same thing over with their bodies but that was not how their minds read it.
They stood before a cave, its entrance blocked by a huge boulder which gave way. They entered together, for that was the only way in, in pairs. Eternities were opened as they knew they had come into the unique gift of constant and complete regeneration. A floating kind of thing that went on and on. It was awesome to comprehend that they had discovered nirvana.
For Conor Larkin loving Shelley MacLeod was a time of reckoning. He had edged himself to the brink that ruled out this kind of love but backed down in the final instant. He had fled from Callaghan's Funeral Parlor. He had to find Shelley first, see her once more before that final commitment, see if this thing he felt was really true or if it were some kind of poet's illusion.
From the very beginning, Shelley had crept in and brought on doubts over the course in which he was directing his life. She got him to wondering if his longings had always really been for the love of a woman. Perhaps he never understood it until she came. In her warmth he had found peace for the first time in his manhood and that peace was limitless. She was the giver of peace. His self doubts turned into a war. He knew he could not make that final step into that back room until Shelley.