At breakfast Mr. Bradshaw betrayed his agitation several times by laying down his paper to consult his watch. He felt that the whole business of the visit was being overdone. He was not opposed in principle to honouring the royal visitors. As a retired civil servant he knew where his duties and his loyalty lay. He approved, for instance, of municipal decorations. In the paper he was trying to read, under the heading Kingstown Decoration Committee, the Chairman Arthur E. Mills, Esq., J.P., and the secretary M. A. Manning, Esq., Town Clerk, jointly acknowledged several subscriptions, including one of one guinea from R. A. Bradshaw, Esq. And, although neither he nor Mrs. Bradshaw would, for the life of them, venture that day into the crowded and confused streets, they had arranged to watch the procession from a window on the second floor, from which he had already hung a large banner with the words ‘God Save Our King’ picked out in gold letters. The evening would be marked by a special meal followed by an intimate musical party.
But Mr. Bradshaw had to look at the arrangements in a dual capacity. In addition to being a retired civil servant and a substantial shareholder in a number of well-established companies, he was the owner of five houses in an alley very close to the harbour. A family occupied each room. What would happen to these five infirm shells of tottering brick and their swarms of poverty-stricken humanity when His Majesty’s Navy blasted off a battery of heavy guns Mr. Bradshaw trembled to think. The nearby railway line had already caused damage enough.
‘You’re not eating, my dear,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.
‘I keep thinking of this damned salute.’
‘I’m sure the houses will be quite safe.’
‘I wish I had your confidence. Why can’t they blow bugles or something?’
‘I expect they’ll do that as well.’
‘Or pipe him ashore.’
‘I think that’s only for admirals.’
‘They have decorations, floral arches, addresses of welcome, military bands. I’m as loyal as the next, I hope, but surely to goodness that ought to be enough without the criminal waste of useful and probably expensive ammunition. It is vulgar, apart from anything else. What time is it?’
‘It must be almost eight.’
Mr. Bradshaw consulted his watch again.
‘I make it five minutes to,’ he said, ‘but I may be fast.’
‘You must think of something else, something pleasant. We’ll have a lovely evening of music. Think forward to that.’
‘If all goes well in the meanwhile,’ Mr. Bradshaw said, in a tone which betrayed his grave doubt.
‘Young Father O’Connor is coming. He has a beautiful tenor voice.’
‘Too much wobble in it for my fancy,’ Mr. Bradshaw said, again consulting his watch.
‘And Mr. Yearling is bringing his ’cello. I’ll always remember the night you and Father O’Connor sang “The Moon Hath Raised”. Mr. Yearling extemporised beautifully by just looking at the piano score over my shoulder. I thought that very accomplished. It’s a great gift of his.’
‘He makes heavy inroads on my whiskey,’ Mr. Bradshaw said sourly, ‘that’s another great gift of his.’
Mrs. Bradshaw knew it was useless to talk to him when he had anything on his mind; he simply refused to be cheered. He had always been like that, easily worried and plunged into gloomy humours. Not indeed that she herself looked forward to the noise. It was all very well for soldiers, or young people with strong nerves. Still, she was certain there was nothing whatever to worry about. She noted that his cup was empty and reached across for the teapot.
‘Tea?’ she asked gently.
He put aside his paper and held out his cup.
‘Don’t quite fill it,’ he requested.
She began to pour. Suddenly a thundering salvo shook the room. The windows rattled and the tableware danced. Mr. Bradshaw jumped and let his cup and saucer slip from his fingers. Mrs. Bradshaw, in her efforts to stifle a scream, continued to pour strong tea over the tablecloth for some seconds. The royal party were coming ashore. Mr. Bradshaw’s watch had not been fast. It was, in fact, three minutes slow.
About an hour later the royal cortège left Kingstown. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, recovered from their upset, waved loyally from the upstairs window. Mary stood behind them, her heart beating with excitement. The procession moved into Crofton Road, turned into Monkstown and paused at Blackrock for yet another address of welcome. The King had been informed of Kingstown’s determination to supply small cottages for the labouring classes and gave the scheme his unqualified approval. The health and efficiency of the labourer depended to a great extent, he said, on a happy home life. He was much touched by their warm and generous welcome. Thousands lined the royal route. They waved flags and bantered good-humouredly with the police. It was the same all the way along Rock Road, Ailesbury Road and Donnybrook. At Morehampton Road, a series of Venetian masts had been erected on both sides of the broad central avenue which divided Herbert Park and the route leading from there to the central bandstand quivered under gay bunting. Slender flag-staves with suitable banners had been affixed to the ornamental light standards. There was a wealth of flowers and plants. A journalist, recording their Majesties’ arrival at the exhibition, observed that the people raised lusty cheers of loyal welcome. He noted something further, something which might be interpreted as a manifestation of Divine approval. Just as the Anthem was being played the clouds dispersed, the July sun blazed out, the watching thousands cheered afresh. There had been some doubt about the sky’s intentions. Now they smiled at one another in relief. ‘King’s weather,’ they remarked.
At the speech of welcome there was a little incident which did not escape the attention of the onlookers. His Majesty, having replied, called for his sword. Lord Aberdeen spoke sotto voce to the organising chairman, Mr. Murphy. He was then obliged in turn to speak sotto voce to His Majesty, who moved on to other business with characteristic composure. A few astute onlookers tumbled to it that a knighthood had been refused.
It was the second small cloud to trouble the minds of those who were responsible for the King’s content during his short stay. The man directly concerned was Sir Arthur Vicars, Ulster King-at-Arms and custodian of the jewelled Royal Order of St. Patrick. These had mysteriously disappeared from Dublin Castle only a few days before. They were valued at over £50,000. Worse still, they were the jewels worn on state visits by the reigning Monarch of England. The King would have to do without them. Mr. Birrell, the Chief Secretary, was openly of the opinion that the Chief Herald and Ulster King-at-Arms had stolen them himself. Social opinion was divided between those who endorsed his view and those who deplored his lack of restraint. Meanwhile the Treasury, in a practical frame of mind, offered £1,000 reward for information leading to the recovery. And the King, imperceptibly diminished in splendour, went, unbejewelled, to the Viceregal Lodge.
Rashers Tierney rose that morning about the same time as King Edward. First the dog barked and then a hand reached down and shook his shoulder. It was very dark in the basement. The form above him could have been Death, or a ghost, or the hangover figure from a nightmare. Rashers was lying on straw. It was no cleaner than it could be in the damp and dirt of the almost windowless cellar. Recognising the figure at last as that of Mrs. Bartley, he threw aside the nondescript rags which covered him. There was no need for any modest precautions. He was fully dressed.
‘I boiled you a can of water,’ Mrs. Bartley said, ‘you’ll want it for to make tea.’
Rashers gurgled to dislodge the sleep phlegm from his throat and spat on the floor.
‘The blessings of God and His Holy Mother on you for the kind thought,’ he said.