‘I slept a good twelve hours and I reckon that’s enough,’ Brendan said, sitting down at his usual place. ‘Then I thought it were about breakfast time, and that was enough for me stomach to decide to go on strike an’ all . . . “No more sleep for you, me laddo,” me stomach said, “not until I’m fed an’ watered.”’
Mrs Taggart laughed. ‘I’ll heat the pan,’ she said, then walked across to the dresser and picked up an envelope. ‘Letter for you; Irish stamp, so it’ll be from home,’ she informed him. ‘You’re in luck, though I’ve not heard anyone say that the postal service is part of these here strikes . . . not yet, at any rate.’
She handed the letter over and Brendan saw at once that it was from Sylvie. He opened it with his heart in his mouth, for she had seemed very down in her last letter; the baby had been overdue, the heat was killing her, and she was no longer working at the laundry but was beginning to miss the companionship of the other laundry workers and had actually been considering returning to work, hard though it was.
So he opened this letter with some trepidation, then smiled with relief. The baby had arrived; not the expected boy, but a girl. She had not yet named the child. Did he know the exact date when Len would be coming out of prison? She had had a bad time birthing the baby, and Caitlin thought she should stay in Dublin until the baby was six weeks old. She did not ask about Becky, for her mother and mother-in-law both kept her posted, but sometimes, she told Brendan, she felt her little daughter would scarcely remember her when she did return.
The letter, which was short, ended with the usual sentence.
Well, I must close now and write to the family
, she said.
Many thanks for all your help, Brendan, and for your last nice letter. See you soon. Yours faithfully, Sylvie.
‘Everything all right at home?’ Mrs Taggart enquired. She put down in front of him a plate bearing, in addition to bacon, eggs and fried bread, a pile of new potatoes, cut into discs and fried in the bacon fat. ‘Get outside of that little lot,’ she commanded comfortably. ‘Then there’s toast and butter, and some of my marmalade, and a nice big mug o’ tea. What’ll you be doing for the rest o’ the day? If I were you, I’d tek a walk to settle the food down like, and then I’d get back to bed, catch up on me beauty sleep.’
Brendan thought this a good idea and said so, trying to eat slowly so that he would not be plagued with indigestion, something which most beat coppers had to contend with due to missing so many meals and then bolting the ones they did manage to get in order to return to their duty. However, his breakfast finished, he realised he was far too wide awake to return to bed, and, seeing what a fine day it was, he decided to go out for a stroll. He owed his parents a letter and could write that – and one to Sylvie – when he returned. He had been meaning for ages to find out exactly when Len would be coming out of prison, hoping that Sylvie would be able to come back before that date, but now it sounded as though she was unlikely to do so. He knew she had been dreadfully homesick, particularly at first, missing Becky, her family and her friends, and he guessed too that she hated the filth and poverty of Handkerchief Alley. However, as time went on, her friendship with Caitlin had compensated for the temporary loss of her Liverpool connections and she had loved the job in Switzers, though she had been sad when the firm had dismissed her, as her condition grew more obvious.
Brendan had never visited Handkerchief Alley but he had spent some time in Dublin and knew the slums to be a great deal worse than those in Liverpool. Sylvie had assured him however that Caitlin’s home was a little palace compared with those of her neighbours and this had relieved his mind. It would have been too bad had he found he had sent Sylvie to a dreadful, disgusting place instead of to the refuge he had promised her.
It was a warm day, so Brendan slung his jacket across one shoulder and sallied forth into the sunshine. He had been heading for the Free Library on William Brown Street and was still thinking about Sylvie and her troubles when he saw that the entire area ahead of him was thronging with people. He groaned inwardly; it looked as though he had walked right into the beginning of another riot, and on his first day off for ages, too. He was thankful that he was not in uniform and would have turned round and found an alternative route but for the press of the crowd; they were all going in one direction and he was being carried along with them. Strong though he was, he found it impossible to retrace his steps.
The people surged into the huge space of St George’s Plateau and Brendan saw that a speaker, perched high on the steps, was already addressing the crowd. Squinting over the heads of those in front of him Brendan recognised Tom Mann, the socialist and labour leader. He admired Mr Mann but sensed that there would be trouble when he saw a large body of police beginning to shove their way through the crowd, shouting at the men before them to disperse or they would regret it. But the crowd did not intend to disperse; they had come to hear Tom Mann speak and did not mean to let themselves be sent home like naughty schoolboys, so the warnings were ignored, though shouts were exchanged. If the police had behaved less violently, Brendan thought afterwards, the trouble would not have escalated the way it did, but very soon truncheons were being flourished – and used – and people were beginning to run. Horrified, Brendan saw men fall, saw those who came behind surge over them. But he was powerless to interfere, for now he was being carried away from the plateau and back in the direction of his lodgings. All around him he saw the white and frightened faces of men who had only wanted to listen to Tom Mann and had ended up bruised and battered. Many were blood-streaked, some nursing arms which might later prove to be broken; others limped on crushed and painful feet. Glancing back, Brendan saw members of the police force, many of whom he knew, with the light of battle in their eyes hitting out mercilessly at men who had no weapons to defend themselves with. It was the first time he had been at a riot – if you could call it that – without the protection of his uniform and his fellow officers. And he realised the terror that the force inspired in ordinary people. For a start, most of the police were taller and better fed than the men they were harassing, and they knew how to wield their truncheons for the most punishing effect. When you took into account the fact that all the men in the crowd were out of work and had already come perilously close to starvation, it was no wonder that they fled, only anxious to get home where they might nurse their hurts.
Brendan turned away, sickened by what he had seen. A man near him was weeping as he cradled crushed and bleeding fingers; another was swearing a steady stream of profanity as he hitched his filthy jacket up over a shoulder which he carried with great care. We treat them worse than animals, Brendan thought disgustedly. And there was no need for it, no need at all. They weren’t rioting, poor devils, they were simply trying to listen to a man they admired, a man who might one day be able to help them improve their lot in life.
He made his way back to his lodgings in a thoughtful mood. He had joined in police charges without ever really seeing how wrong such actions could be because he had been with his fellow policemen, defending them as they were defending him. Now, however, he was seeing such behaviour through the eyes of the oppressed, recognising the needless brutality, the pleasure in violence which he had read in more than one constable’s face.
He arrived back at his lodgings and was greeted with mild surprise by Mrs Taggart, who looked him up and down before remarking that he had better clean himself up a bit. ‘There’s soup and sandwiches in half an hour and by the look of you you’ll have worked up quite an appetite by then, despite your big breakfast,’ she said.
Brendan looked down at himself and was surprised to see that there were smears of dirt on his jacket and blood on his shirt. He knew he had not been hurt at all but guessed that, in the press of the crowd, blood and dirt had got transferred from the wounded to everyone within reach. ‘Okay, I’ll have a good wash. And you’re right, Mrs Taggart, I have worked up an appetite. I got caught up in a meeting on St George’s Plateau and there was a bit of a scuffle. Not being in uniform I wasn’t involved, but I reckon I must have brushed up against fellers who bore the brunt of the police dispersal.’
‘Very likely,’ Mrs Taggart said, then heaved a sigh. ‘It’s a tough life, bein’ a copper,’ she observed. ‘Especially when you’re lined up against your own kind, so to speak. My Albert found it hard, but it’s what they pay you for, he used to say. Just you remember that, and it won’t seem so bad.’
Brendan looked at his landlady with considerable respect, for she had clearly read his feelings on the matter. ‘I will,’ he promised. ‘Thanks, Mrs T. And now I’ll go to my room and make myself respectable.’
Brendan managed to get his two days off, but as soon as he put his head round the station door at the end of that time he was told to report to Rose Hill police station, where an extra man was needed, and from then on he almost forgot what it was like to have a proper sleep in his own bed. The seamen refused to let the dockers unload their cargoes and the dockers themselves refused to work. Then the transport workers refused to move supplies which had been unloaded by blacklegs from the quayside. The army were called in, and in the heat of the riots Brendan almost forgot about Sylvie, and was honestly surprised to discover, from someone who had been drinking at the Ferryman, that Len Dugdale was out of prison and would very shortly be looking for work.
‘He was a docker before he were sent to gaol, but there’s nothing doing down the docks right now, unless you’re prepared to outface the pickets,’ Brendan’s informant said. ‘Of course he can help out in the pub, but if the ale runs out there won’t be much call for him there either.’ He chuckled. ‘I dunno if he can drive a tram, but I doubt it. I reckon he’ll be wishin’ hisself back in jug before he’s much older.’
‘He ought to join the force; we aren’t allowed to go on strike,’ Brendan said wearily. He had been set to guard a warehouse full of grain, but it had been fired by insurgents, so he and his fellow policemen had spent an exhausting night fighting the blaze. ‘Anyhow, the bosses have got to listen to reason sooner or later; let’s hope it’s sooner, because I’m fairly worn out.’
But the bosses did not listen, or not immediately at any rate, and Brendan continued to work all the hours God sent and to drop into his bed, when at last he got time off, almost too weary to sleep.
Then, when he had been promised a forty-eight-hour break and had fallen asleep at last, he was roused by Mrs Taggart, her grey hair in curl papers, a shawl clutched round her nightgowned form and a drooping candle in one hand. ‘They’ve sent a young feller round to rouse you out,’ she told him, yawning. ‘There’s been trouble down at the docks and they need every man they can get; will you go?’
‘I suppose so,’ Brendan said wearily, putting his feet out of bed. ‘I suppose they want me to report to Rose Hill?’
‘No, Hatton Garden. I’ll get you a nice cup of tea whiles you dress,’ Mrs Taggart said. ‘I know it must feel like the middle of the night, but it’s only ten o’clock so if things go well you could yet get yourself a proper night’s sleep. I still had my lamp lit, otherwise the lad could have knocked until kingdom come and I’d just have pretended to be asleep.’
Brendan grinned at her. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said, reaching for his uniform trousers, for he had gone to bed in his underwear, too exhausted to undress. ‘And I’d be grateful for the tea, so I would. I wonder what’s up? But I dare say I’ll know soon enough.’
He did. Rioters had tried to break into a warehouse alongside the Goree Piazza; the army had been sent in, and the police were wanted to contain what had begun to look like a very ugly situation. To his relief, Brendan found that the night air, despite being very warm and almost muggy, woke him up properly, and he was able to be a real help to his fellows when it came to defending the warehouse. And, as always, the sight of the army with fixed bayonets was enough to scatter the crowd, so that after no more than an hour Brendan was able to return to the Hatton Garden nick and receive his orders to stand down.
‘Go back to bed, lad,’ his sergeant said. The poor feller looks as tired as I feel, Brendan thought, and was glad to obey the command, though as he made his way through the dark streets he felt inclined to lean against a wall and just nod off while he had the chance. However, he knew this would never do, and kept doggedly on, forcing himself to walk as though on his beat.
He might have continued thus, more asleep than awake, had he not happened to glance sideways as he passed the mouth of a jigger and see, between the sagging brick walls, a man – no, two men . . . three – coming towards him. Had the men continued to advance, Brendan would have thought little of it, but they hesitated, clearly seeing his uniform in the dim light of the gas lamp overhead, and then one of them muttered a word of command and all three charged passed him, almost knocking him over. He grabbed at them, caught the edge of a shirt which came apart in his hand, kicked out, felt his boot connect with a shin and shouted . . . then one of the men turned and pushed Brendan violently in the back. Unprepared, Brendan went down like a ninepin and by the time he had recovered his wits and scrambled to his feet, the men had disappeared and he was alone in the mouth of the jigger.
Or not alone. The men had been up to some mischief and now that the sound of their boots had receded he could hear something else, another sound, and one he did not like: a moaning, like the sort of noise a cat makes when injured.
Bristling with indignation, Brendan marched into the narrow passageway, expecting to find an animal in a bad way . . . and found what he at first thought to be a pile of clothes hard up against a dilapidated wooden door. He bent over the pile but could see very little. Then he remembered he had a box of matches in his pocket and lit one, bent once more . . . and swore beneath his breath. Breathing stertorously, blood-dappled, the elder of the two looking as though his head had been caved in by a vicious blow, were Len Dugdale and his father.