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.”