Read Strumpet City for Free Online Page A

with Mendelssohn’s ‘On Wings of Song’ and she accompanied with exquisite sympathy. He played beautifully so that even Mr. Bradshaw was moved at the end to say:
    ‘Dammit, Belton, you have wonderful warmth and tone tonight. You surpassed yourself.’
    Mr. Yearling was refreshing himself with a glass of whiskey.
    Although the evening was warm she had had a fire lit, not only as a courtesy to the company but because a room without a fire made her restless. She loved to see its light flickering on the walls and shining on the glasses and glowing deeply in the rich varnish of Mr. Yearling’s ’cello. Through the french windows she watched the last light lingering on the lawn, giving the grass a reddish tint and picking out the contrasting colours of the flowers. The laburnum at the end, in full flower, glowed deeply yellow, its base encircled by fallen blossoms. She had remarked that it had been a beautiful day for the royal pair and that had drawn the information from Mr. Yearling about the manner of their return.
    ‘Let’s hope they don’t go to Belfast,’ Mr. Yearling added, when he had finished his whiskey.
    ‘Why not, Belton?’ Mr. Bradshaw asked.
    ‘This fellow Larkin has the city in a state of revolution.’
    ‘Of course,’ Mr. Bradshaw admitted. He had questioned without thinking very deeply about what he was saying.
    ‘The military are camped in the main streets,’ Father O’Connor contributed.
    ‘They mean business too. They fired on the strikers the other day.’
    ‘There have been deaths,’ Father O’Connor reminded them. ‘It is so very regrettable.’
    ‘Hope he keeps away from Dublin,’ Mr. Bradshaw said.
    ‘He will, because he’ll be broken,’ Mr. Yearling assured him. ‘If our chaps don’t do it his own people will. Sexton has threatened to expel him.’
    ‘Who’s Sexton?’ Father O’Connor asked.
    ‘The general secretary of the union Larkin represents. Apparently Larkin called this strike without the sanction of the union executive. From his speeches he seems to be a law unto himself.’
    ‘It’s a pity it should be necessary,’ Father O’Connor said.
    The company looked at him curiously. Father O’Connor flushed. He was quite young.
    ‘Don’t misunderstand me—I am totally against Mr. Larkin’s outrageous methods. He seems to me to be little better than a socialist. But I understand conditions are very, very bad in Belfast.’
    Mr. Yearling surprised everybody by saying:
    ‘They are very bad in Dublin too.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ Mr. Bradshaw said, rudely.
    ‘Ralph,’ Mrs. Bradshaw reproved him.
    ‘Sorry. But you surprise me, Belton.’
    ‘Facts,’ Mr. Yearling insisted, sticking to his guns.
    ‘I think we should have a little music,’ Mrs. Bradshaw suggested. She smiled at Father O’Connor. ‘You haven’t done anything for us, Father.’
    ‘Of course,’ the others agreed.
    Father O’Connor opened his music case and selected a piece which he handed to Mrs. Bradshaw. She went to the piano.
    ‘What is it, Father?’
    ‘“Ave Maria”,’ Mrs. Bradshaw answered, smoothing the sheets.
    ‘Schubert or Gounod?’
    ‘Actually,’ Father O’Connor said, a little apologetically, ‘it’s by Locatelli.’
    Behind Father O’Connor’s back Mr. Yearling’s bushy eyebrows arched enquiringly at Mr. Bradshaw. Mr. Bradshaw shrugged his ignorance of the piece and Mr. Yearling acknowledged with a nod. Neither was enthusiastic. They felt the priest’s selection was in dubious taste. A social evening should be kept strictly secular. Besides, Mr. Yearling was a Protestant.
    Father O’Connor sang pleasantly, if a little bit too sweetly. His voice had a touch of vibrato, poorly controlled. Still, he knew something about music generally: he could sight read quite well too.
    ‘Bravo,’ Mr. Bradshaw said when he had finished.
    ‘I’m not of your persuasion, Father, but I think the “Ave Maria” is a very beautiful prayer,’ Mr. Yearling contributed.
    Everybody