DERMOD FLYNN
I
When the old woman left her, Norah sat for a while buried in thought,
her scissors lying on one knee, one hand hanging idly by her side. The
boy was very ill, the cough hardly left him for a moment and his eyes
were bright and feverish.
“If he dies what am I to do?” Norah asked herself several times. “Then
it would be that I’d have nothing to live for.”
She rose and followed Meg into the room. The woman sat beside the fire,
humming an old song. A candle, stuck in the neck of a beer-bottle, was
alight, and a cricket chirped behind the fireless grate. “I’m goin’ out
for a while,” said Norah in a low, strained voice. “Will ye look after
the boy until I come back? I’ll take him in here.”
“All right,” said the woman, rising to her feet. “Take the little thing
in.”
When Norah re-entered her own room the boy was coughing weakly but
insistently in the darkness. She lit a candle, sat down on the corner of
the bed and was immediately deep in thought. Her money had now dwindled
away; she had only one and threepence in her possession. She even felt
hungry; for a long while this sensation was almost foreign to her. The
weekly rent was due on the morrow, and the child needed the doctor,
needed food, needed fresh air and, above all, the attention which she
was unable to give him.
She lifted him tenderly from the bed and carried him in to Meg, who
began to crow with delight when the child was placed in her withered
arms. Once back in her own room Norah resumed her seat on the bedside
and seemed to be debating some very heavy problem. The candle flared
faintly in the sconce on the floor; large shadows chased one another on
the grimy ceiling ... the cripple came upstairs, Norah could hear the
rattle of his crutches ... the noise of the city was loud outside the
windows.
Norah rose, swept the floor, lit the lamp, a thing which she had not
done for many nights, candles being much cheaper than oil. She went out,
bought some coal and a penny bundle of firewood: these she placed on the
grate, ready for lighting. The bed she sorted with nervous care, sighing
as she spread out the blankets and arranged the pillows.
She then began to dress herself carefully, brushing back her hair with
trembling fingers as she looked into the little broken hand-mirror, one
of Sheila Carrol’s belongings. Her well-worn dress still retained a
certain coquetry of cut and suited her well, her broad-brimmed hat,
which she had not worn for a long while, gave an added charm to her
white brow and grey eyes.
When dressed she stood for a moment to listen to the child coughing in
Meg’s room. Stifling with an effort the impulse to go in and have one
look at the boy, she crossed herself on forehead and lips and went out
on the landing. For a moment something seemed to perplex her; she stood
and looked round on all sides. The place was deserted; nothing could be
heard but the cripple singing “Annie Laurie” in a loud, melodious voice.
Norah again crossed herself, stepped slowly down the stairs, and went
out to the street.
II
At midnight she returned for her child. The boy was still coughing, but
more quietly than before, and the old woman was lying flat upon her
stomach, asleep by the fireside. Norah lifted the child, took him into
her own room and placed the frail bundle, in which was wrapped up all
her life and all her hopes, on the bed.
The fire was burning brightly, the oil-lamp gave out a clear, comforting
light which showed up the whole room, the bare floor, the black walls
enlivened by no redeeming feature save the crude picture of the Virgin
and Child and the little black cross hanging from a rusty nail near the
window; the pile of dongaree jackets shoved into a corner, the
orange-box and the bed with the blankets, which Norah had sorted such a
short time before, now in strange disorder.
Old Meg suddenly bustled into the room, a frightened look on her face.
“I thought that some yin had stolen the little dear,” she cried, her
breath reeking with alcohol. “Ah, here he is, the wee laddie,” she cooed
on seeing the little pink face in the bed. “I hae got a fright, I hae
indeed, Norah Ryan!”
The woman sat down on the orange box and looked curiously round, first
at the lighted lamp, then at the fire, then at Norah, and afterwards
back to the fire again.
“Hae ye got siller the noo, lassie?” she exclaimed at last. “Has yer
rich uncle kicked the bucket? Fire and light the noo and everything? Ah!
what’s this?” she exclaimed, bending down and lifting a half-smoked
cigarette from the floor. She looked at it for a moment, then threw it
into the flames.
“Has it come to this, Norah Ryan?” she asked, and a faint touch of
regret mingled with the woman’s tones.
Norah, who was bending over the child, turned round fiercely; for a
moment she looked like some beautiful animal cornered in its own lair.
“It has come to this, Meg Morraws!” she shouted. “Did ye think that I
couldn’t sell my soul? I would do anything under heaven to save my boy;
that’s the kind of me, Meg Morraws. I’ve money now and Dermod won’t die.
I won’t let him die!... What wouldn’t I do for him, child of my own and
of my heart?... It’s ill luck that’s drawin’ me to ruin, Meg, but not
the boy. He can’t help the sickness and it’s myself that has got to make
him well again.... I had whisky this night: that made me brave. I
could.... Isn’t it time that ye were in bed, Meg Morraws? I’m not
feelin’ kind towards anyone but the child. I want no one here but
Dermod, my little boy.”
Meg went into her room, closing the door softly behind her. Norah took
some money--five shillings--from her pocket and put it on the
mantelpiece, under the picture of the Virgin and Child. It made a
tinkling sound as she put it down and the silver coins sparkled
brightly.
Then she turned down the light, threw some more coals on the fire, and
taking the child from the bed she sat down and held the little bundle of
pink flesh against her bosom. She could hear the water bubbling from the
tap out on the landing; the noise of footsteps on the stairs; loud,
vacant laughter from No. 8. Why did those women laugh, Norah
wondered.... The fire blazed brightly, and as she raised her eyes she
could see the silver coins on the mantelpiece shining like stars.
III
Someone rapped; and receiving no answer, the caretaker, the woman with
the red wisps of hair, and a string for a neck, poked her head through
the door.
“Not in bed yet, Norah Ryan?” she asked.
“Just goin’,” the girl answered.
“They’re doin’ a big trade at No. 8 the night,” said the woman.
“I’m not wantin’ to hear; it’s nothing to me.”
The caretaker smiled, showing her teeth, sharp as a dog’s and in a good
state of preservation.
“I’m only just tellin’ ye,” said the woman. “I suppose ye ken, lassie,
that half the rooms up this stair are lyin’ idle, wi’ no yin to take
them. What is the reason for that? I’ll tell ye. Some people, decent
folk, ye ken, will not come to sic a place because they dinna like women
of the kind at No. 8. If these two women were put away, this landing
would be fillt ev’ry night. But I let the women stay. Why’s that?
Because I like fair play. Give everyone a chance to live, is what I say.
And they’re makin’ guid siller, them twa lassies at No. 8. Three pounds
a night between them sometimes. And I wouldna turn them oot; wouldna do
it for wurl’s, because I like fair play. But as ye ken yersel’, they
must pay me a little more than other lodgers.”
“What do ye want me to pay extra?” asked Norah in a hard voice. “Tell me
at once and leave me to meself.” “Say half and half,” answered the
red-haired woman, glaring covertly at the Irish girl. “That’ll be fair,
for ye’ll earn the money very easy, so to speak. And then ye can stay
here as long as ye like. I wouldna turn ye oot, no for onything, because
I like fair play. It’s not ev’ry house, ye ken, that would.... But ye
know what I mean. I wish ye good-night, and I’ll make a note of all the
men that come up. And if the police come along I’ll gi’e ye the wink.
Good-night and good luck!”
The woman went out, but presently poked her red wisps in again. “I’ll
take it that every man I see comin’ in here gies ye five bob. If they
gie ye more ye can tell me; but five bob’ll be the least, and half and
half is fair play. Good-night; good-night and good luck!”
“A dirty hag she is!” said old Meg, who had been listening at the door
during the conversation and who now came into the room. “Dirty! and her
makin’ piles of tin. Full of money she is and so is the woman that owns
the buildin’. Mrs. Crawford they cry her, and she lives oot in Hillhead,
the rich people’s place, and goes to church ev’ry Sunday with prayer
books under her arm. Strike me dead! if she isn’t a swine, a swine
unhung, a swine and a half. Has a motor car too, and is always writin’
to the papers about sanitary arrangements. ‘It isn’t healthy to have too
many people in the one room,’ she says. But I ken what she’s up to, her
with her sanitary and her fresh air and everything else, the swine! If
few people stay in ev’ry room she can let more of them; God put her in
the pit, the swine! And the woman downstairs, the thin-necked serpent!
is just as bad. If the likes of her finds women like me and you goin’ to
hell they try to rob us outright before Old Nick puts his mits on our
shoulders.”
IV
In the days which followed, Norah learned much which may not be written
down in books, sad things that many dare not read, but which some, under
the terrible tyranny of destiny, dare to endure. It now seemed to the
girl that all freedom of action, all the events of her life had been
irrevocably decided before she was born. Deep down in her heart this
thought, lacking expression and almost undefined, was always with her.
She bought new dresses, learned the art of making every curl on her
white brow look tempting, and every movement of her face and body to
express desires which she did not feel. She followed up her new
profession like one sentenced to death, with reason clogged, feeling
deadened and intellect benumbed. As an alternative to this there was
nothing but starvation and death, and even purity is costly at such a
price. Dragged to the tribunal which society erects for the prosecution
of the poor and pure, she was asked to renounce all that she cherished,
all her hopes, her virginity, her soul. Society, sated with the labour
of her hands, asked for her soul, and society, being the stronger, had
its demand gratified.
But over it all, over the medley of pain and sorrow, over the blazing
crucible of existence in which all fair dreams and hopes of the woman
were melted away, greater and more powerful than anything else in
Norah’s life, intense and enduring, unselfish and pure, shone the
wonderful flame, the star of passionate love shining in the holy heaven
of motherhood.
The child’s illness grew worse. One doctor was called in; then another.
Both looked wise for a moment, strove to appear unconcerned, passed
different verdicts and went away. One condemned the bedclothes; they
were unsanitary. Norah procured new clothes; but the child became worse.
Medicines were bought one day; they were condemned the next. A pretty
pink dress was obtained for the child; it did not suit. When taken back
to the clothes-seller he declared it was ruined and charged afresh for
new garments.
So day after day, each full of a killing anxiety and bringing its own
particular trouble, passed by. Her house had attained a certain fame as
houses of the kind rapidly do.
The hooligans who stood at the street corner soon knew her by repute,
for an ill name flies far and sticks fast. Little Tommy Macara looked in
at her door no more; the boy’s mother had warned him against the woman.
Life was now to Norah one vast intolerable burden that crushed her down.
If only the child were dead things would be clearer; then she would know
what to do. If Dermod died everything would be simplified; one easy
plunge into the river where it swirled under Glasgow Bridge would for
ever end all heartbreak and sorrow.
V
Norah went out into the city on her usual errand; she had now known the
life of the streets for fully two months. It was nearly midnight, the
streets were well nigh deserted, save for the occasional prowlers and
drunken men who were coming home from their clubs or from the foul
haunts of the city.
As she walked along, her head held down against the cutting breeze that
had suddenly risen and was now whirling round every corner, she heard
steps coming behind her, and in these steps she detected something
strangely familiar. For a moment she felt like a wayfarer who goes
alone, along a dark road, and waits for some horrible apparition to
stretch out from the darkness and put a hand on his shoulder. The steps
drew nearer, came closer ... somebody was passing her. Norah looked up,
started a little and cried:
“Under God, the day and the night! It’s Dermod Flynn that’s in it!”
She was again looking at Dermod Flynn; he stood in front of her, his
hand stretched out in welcome.
“Is this you, Norah?” he asked.
The crushing fatality of her years pressed down upon her; she suddenly
realised that she had lost something very precious; that all her
accidents and faults were bunched together and now laid before her. He
had grown so big too; a man he looked.
“Is it yerself that’s in it, Dermod Flynn?” she asked. “I didn’t expect
to meet you here. Have ye been away home since I saw ye last?” She
thought she detected a wave of pity sweeping over Dermod’s face and
resting in his eyes.
“I have never been at home yet,” he answered. “Have you?”
“Me go home!” she replied almost defiantly. “What would I be going home
for now with the black mark of shame over me? D’ye think that I’d darken
me mother’s door with the sin that’s on me, heavy on me soul? Sometimes
I’m thinkin’ long, but I never let on to anybody, and it’s meself that
would like to see the old spot again. It’s a good lot I’d give to see
the grey boats of Dooey goin’ out beyond Trienna Bar in the grey duskus
of the harvest evenin’. D’ye mind the time ye were at school, Dermod,
and the way ye struck the master with the pointer?”
“I mind it well,” said Dermod with a laugh, “and you said that he was
dead when he dropped on the form.”
“And d’ye mind the day that ye went over beyont the mountains with the
bundle under yer arm? I met ye on the road and ye said that ye were
never comin’ back.”
“You did not care whether I returned or not. You did not stop to bid me
good-bye.”
“I was frightened of ye,” answered Norah, who noticed that Dermod spoke
resentfully, as if she had been guilty of some unworthy action.
“Why were ye frightened?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“And you did not even turn to look after me!”
“That was because I knew that ye yerself was lookin’ round.”
“Do you remember the night on the Derry boat?” Dermod asked wistfully.
“Quite well, Dermod,” she replied. “I often be thinkin’ of them days, I
do indeed.”
There was a momentary silence. Norah dreaded the next question which
instinctively she knew Dermod would ask. He was better dressed than
formerly, she noticed, and he was tall and strong. She felt that he was
one in whom great reliance could be placed.
“Where are you going at this hour of the night?” he asked, and Norah
read accusation in his tones.
“I’m goin’ out for a walk,” she answered.
“Where are you workin’?”
“How much does he know?” Norah asked herself. What could she tell him?
That she was a servant in a gentleman’s house. But even as the lie was
stammering on her tongue she faltered and burst into tears.
“Don’t cry,” said the young man awkwardly. “Is there--what’s wrong with
ye, Norah?”
She did not answer, but low sobs shook her bosom. How much she wished to
be away, and yet--how she liked to be beside him! Surely Dermod would
think her a very funny girl to weep like that! A momentary remembrance
of a morning long ago when she met him on the Glenmornan road flashed
across her mind, and she held out her hand.
“Slan agiv, Dermod,” she said in a choking voice, “I must be goin’. It
was good of ye to speak to me in that nice way of yers, Dermod.”
His hand closed on hers but he did not speak. The sound of far-off
footsteps reached her ears.... A window was lifted somewhere near at
hand ... a cab rattled on the streets. Norah withdrew her hand and went
on her journey, leaving Dermod alone on the pavement.