THE PARTY

Old Johnny, one of the Gas Company’s watchmen, was a man with a real
appreciation of his job. Most of the time, of course, it was a cold,
comfortless job, with no one to talk to, and he envied his younger
friend Tim Coakley, the postman.  Postmen had a cushy time of
it—always watched and waited for, bringing good news or bad news,
often called in to advise, and (according to Tim, at least)
occasionally called in for more intimate purposes. Tim, of course, was
an excitable man, and he could be imagining a lot of that, though
Johnny gave him the benefit of the doubt. At the same time, queer
things happened to Johnny now and again that were stranger than
anything Tim could tell. As it seemed to Johnny, people got it worse
at night; the wild ones grew wilder, the gloomy ones
gloomier. Whatever it was in them that had light in it burned more
clearly, the way the stars and moon did when the sun went down. It was
the darkness that did it. Johnny would be sitting in his hut for hours
in the daylight and no one even gave him a second glance, but once
darkness fell, people would cross the street to look at his brazier,
and even stop to speak to him.

One night, for instance, in the week before Christmas, he was watching
in a big Dublin square, with a railed-off park in the middle of it and
doctors’ and lawyers’ houses on all the streets about it. That suited
Johnny fine, particularly at that time of year, when there was lots of
visiting and entertaining.  He liked to be at the centre of things,
and he always appreciated the touch of elegance: the stone steps
leading up to the tall door, with the figures entering and leaving
looking small in the lighted doorway, and the slight voices echoing on
the great brick sounding-board of the square.

One house in particular attracted him. It was all lit up as if for a
party, and the curtains were pulled back to reveal the tall, handsome
rooms with decorated plaster ceilings. A boy with a basket came and
rang, and a young man in evening dress leaned out of the window and
told the boy to leave the stuff in the basement. As he did so, a girl
came and rested her hand on his shoulder, and she was in evening dress
too.  Johnny liked that. He liked people with a bit of style. If he
had had the good fortune to grow up in a house like that, he would
have done the right thing too. And even though he hadn’t, it pleased
him to watch the show. Johnny, who came of a generation before trade
unions, knew that in many ways it is pleasanter to observe than to
participate. He only hoped there would be singing; he was very partial
to a bit of music.

But this night a thing happened the like of which had never happened
to Johnny before. The door of the house opened and closed, and a man
in a big cloth coat like fur came across the road to him. When he came
closer, Johnny saw that he was a tall, thin man with greying hair and
a pale discontented face.

‘Like to go home to bed for a couple of hours?’ the man asked in a low
voice.

‘What’s that?’ said Johnny, in astonishment.

‘I’ll stay here and mind your box.’

‘Oh, you would, would you?’ Johnny said, under the impression that the
man must have drink taken.

‘I’m not joking,’ said the man shortly.

The grin faded on Johnny’s face, and he hoped God would direct him to
say the right thing. This could be dangerous. It suggested only one
thing—a check-up—though in this season of goodwill you’d think people
would be a bit more charitable, even if a man had slipped away for a
few minutes for a drink. But that was the way of bosses everywhere.
Even Christmas wasn’t sacred to them. Johnny put on an appearance of
great sternness. ‘Oho,’ he said. ‘I can’t afford to do things like
that. There’s valuable property here belonging to the Gas Company. I
could lose my job over a thing like that.’

‘You won’t lose your job,’ the man said. ‘I won’t leave here till you
come back. If there’s any trouble about it, I’ll get you another
job. I suppose it’s money you want.’

‘I never asked you for anything,’ Johnny replied indignantly. ‘And I
can’t go home at this hour, with no bus to bring me back.’

‘I suppose there’s other places you can go,’ the man replied. ‘There’s
a quid, and I won’t expect you till two.’

The sight of the money changed Johnny’s view of the matter. If a rich
man wanted to amuse himself doing Johnny’s job for a while—a little
weakness of rich men that Johnny had heard of in other connexions—and
was willing to pay for it, that was all right. Rich men had to have
their little jokes. Or of course, it could be a bet.

‘Oh, well, he said, rising and giving himself a shake, ‘so long as
there’s no harm in it!’ He hadn’t seen the man go into the house where
they were having a party, so he must live there. ‘I suppose it’s a
joke?’ he added, looking at the man out of the corner of his eye.

‘It’s no joke to me,’ the man said gloomily.

‘Oh, I wasn’t being inquisitive, of course,’ Johnny said hastily. ‘But
I see there was to be a party in the house. I thought it might be
something to do with that.’

‘There’s your quid,’ said the man. ‘You needn’t be back till three
unless you want to. I won’t get much sleep anyway.’

Johnny thanked him profusely and left in high good humour. He foresaw
that the man would probably be of great use to him some time. A man
who could offer to get you a job just like that was not to be
slighted. And besides he had an idea of how he was going to spend the
next hour or so, at least, and a very pleasant way it was. He took a
bus to Ringstead to the house of Tim Coakley, the postman. Tim, though
a good deal younger, was very friendly with him, and he was an
expansive man who loved any excuse for a party.

As Johnny expected, Tim, already on his way to bed, welcomed him with
his two arms out and a great shout of laughter. He was bald and fat,
with a high-pitched voice.  Johnny showed Tim and his wife the money,
and announced that he was treating them to a dozen of stout. Like the
decent man he was, Tim didn’t want to take the money for the stout
from Johnny, but Johnny insisted. ‘Wait till I tell you, man!’ he said
triumphantly. ‘The like of it never happened before in the whole
history of the Gas Company.’

As Johnny told the story, it took close on half an hour, though this
included Mrs Coakley’s departure and return with the dozen of
stout. And then the real pleasure began, because the three of them had
to discuss what it all meant.  Why was the gentleman in the big coat
sitting in the cold of the square looking at the lights and listening
to the noise of the party in his own home? It was a real joy to Johnny
to hear his friend analyse it, for Tim had a powerful intellect, full
of novel ideas, and in no time what had begun as a curious incident in
a watchman’s life was beginning to expand into a romance, a newspaper
case. Tim at once ruled out the idea of a joke. What would be the
point in a joke like that? A bet was the more likely possibility. It
could be that the man had bet someone he could take the watchman’s
place for the best part of the night without being detected, but in
Tim’s view there was one fatal flaw in this explanation.  Why would
the man wear a Coat as conspicuous as the one that Johnny had
described? There would be big money on a wager like that, and the man
would be bound to try and disguise himself better. No, there must be
another explanation, and as Tim drank more stout, bis imagination
played over the theme with greater audacity and logic, till Johnny
himself began to feel uncomfortable. He began to perceive that it
might be a more serious matter than he had thought.

‘We’ve agreed that it isn’t a joke,’ said Tim, holding up one
finger. ‘We’ve agreed that it isn’t a bet,’ he added, holding up
another finger. ‘There is only one explanation that covers the whole
facts,’ he said, holding up his open hand. ‘The man is watching the
house,’

‘Watching his own house?’ Johnny asked incredulously.

‘Exactly. Why else would he pay you good money to sit in your box? A
man like that, that could go to his club and be drinking champagne and
playing cards all night in the best of company? Isn’t it plain that
he’s doing it only to have cover?’

‘So ‘twould seem,’ said Johnny meekly, like any interlocutor of
Socrates.

‘Now, the next question is: who is he watching?’ said Tim.

‘Just so,’ said Johnny with a mystified air.

‘So we ask ourselves: who would a man like that be watching?’ Tim went
on triumphantly.

‘Burglars,’ said Mrs Coakley.

‘Burglars?’ her husband asked with quiet scorn. ‘I suppose they’d walk
in the front door?’

‘He might be watching the cars, though,’ Johnny said.  ‘There’s a lot
of them young hooligans around, breaking into cars. I seen them.’

‘Ah, Johnny, will you have sense?’ Tim asked wearily.  ‘Look, if that
was all the man wanted, couldn’t he give you a couple of bob to keep
an eye on the cars? For the matter of that, couldn’t he have a couple
of plainclothesmen round the square? Not at all, man! He’s watching
somebody, and what I say is, the one he’s watching is his own wife.’

‘His wife?’ Johnny exclaimed, aghast. ‘What would he want to watch his
wife for?’

‘Because he thinks someone is going to that house tonight that should
not be there. Someone that wouldn’t come at all unless he knew the
husband was out. So what does the husband do? He pretends to go out,
but instead of that he hides in a watchman’s box across the road and
waits for him.  What other explanation is there?’

‘Now, couldn’t it be someone after his daughter?’ said Johnny.

‘What daughter?’ Tim asked, hurt at Johnny’s lack of logic. ‘What
would a well-to-do man like that do if his daughter was going with a
fellow he considered unsuitable?  First, he would give the daughter a
clock in the jaw, and then he would say to the maid or butler or
whoever he have, “If a Mr Murphy comes to this house again looking for
Miss Alice, kindly tell him she is not at home.” That’s all he’d do,
and that would be the end of your man. No, Johnny, the one he’s
watching is the wife, and I can only hope it won’t get you into any
trouble.’

‘You don’t think I should tell the bobbies about it?’  Johnny asked in
alarm.

‘What could you tell the bobbies, though?’ Tim asked.  ‘That there was
a man in your box that paid you a quid to let him use it? What proof
have you that a crime is going to be committed? None! And this is only
suspicion. There’s nothing you can do now, only let things take their
course till two o’clock, and then I’ll go round with you and see what
really happened.’

‘But what could happen?’ Johnny asked irritably.

‘He sounds to me like a desperate man,’ Tim said gravely.

‘Oh, desperate entirely,’ agreed his wife, who was swallowing it all
like a box of creams.

‘You don’t mean you think he might do him in?” asked Johnny.

‘Him, or the wife, Johnny,’ said Tim. ‘Or both. Of course, it’s
nothing to do with you what he does,’ he added comfortingly. ‘Whatever
it is, you had neither hand, act, nor part in it. It is only the
annoyance of seeing your name in the papers.’

‘A man should never take advice from anybody,’ Johnny commented
bitterly, opening another bottle of stout.  Johnny was not a drinking
man, but he was worried. He valued his own blameless character, and he
knew there were people bad enough to pretend he ought not to have left
his post for a couple of hours, even at Christmas time, when everybody
was visiting friends. He was not a scholar like Tim, and nobody had
warned him of the desperate steps that rich men took when their wives
acted flighty.

‘Come on,’ Tim said, putting on his coat. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Now, I don’t want your name dragged into this,’ Johnny
protested. ‘You have a family to think of, too.’

‘I’m coming with you, Johnny,’ Tim said in a deep voice, laying his
hand on Johnny’s arm. ‘We’re old friends, and friends stick
together. Besides, as a postman, I’m more accustomed to this sort of
thing than you are. You’re a simple man. You might say the wrong
thing. Leave it to me to answer the questions.’

Johnny was grateful and said so. He was a simple man, as Tim said,
and, walking back through the sleeping town, expecting to see police
cordons and dead bodies all over the place, he was relieved to have a
level-headed fellow like Tim along with him. As they approached the
square and their steps perceptibly slowed, Tim suggested in a low
voice that Johnny should stand at the corner of the square while he
himself scouted round to see if everything was all right.  Johnny
agreed, and stopped at the corner. Everything seemed quiet
enough. There were only two cars outside the house. There were lights
still burning in it, but though the windows were open, as though to
clear the air, there was no sound from within. His brazier still
burned bright and even in the darkness under the trees of the
park. Johnny wished he had never left it.

He saw Tim cross to the other side of the road and go slowly by the
brazier. Then Tim stopped and said something, but Johnny could not
catch the words. After a few moments, Tim went on, turned the corner,
and came back round the square. It took him close on ten minutes, and
when he reached Johnny it was clear that something was wrong.

‘What is it? Johnny asked in agony.

‘Nothing, Johnny,’ Tim said sadly. ‘But do you know who the man is?’

‘Sure I told you I never saw him before,’ said Johnny.

‘I know him,’ said Tim. ‘That’s Hardy that owns the big stores in
George’s Street. It’s his house. The man must be worth hundreds of
thousands.’

‘But what about his wife, man?’ asked Johnny.

‘Ah, his wife died ten years ago. He’s a most respectable man. I don’t
know what he’s doing here, but it’s nothing for you to fret about. I’m
glad for everyone’s sake. Goodnight, Johnny.’

‘Goodnight, Tim, and thanks, thanks!’ cried Johnny, his heart already
lighter.

The Gas Company’s property and his reputation were both secure. The
strange man had not killed his wife or his wife’s admirer, because the
poor soul, having been dead for ten years, couldn’t have an admirer
for her husband or anyone else to kill. And now he could sit in peace
by his brazier and watch the dawn come up over the decent city of
Dublin. The relief was so sharp that he felt himself superior to
Tim. It was all very well for postmen to talk about the interesting
life they led, but they hadn’t the same experiences as
watchmen. Watchmen might seem simple to post-men, but they had a
wisdom of their own, a wisdom that came of the silence and darkness
when a man is left alone with his thoughts, like a sailor aboard
ship. Thinking of the poor man sitting like that in the cold under the
stars watching a party at his own house, Johnny wondered that he could
ever have paid attention to Tim. He approached his brazier smiling.

‘Everything nice and quiet for you?’ he asked.

‘Except for some gasbag that stopped for a chat five minutes ago,’ the
other replied with rancour. Johnny felt rather pleased to hear Tim
described as a gasbag.

‘I know the very man you mean,’ he said with a nod.  ‘He’s a nice poor
fellow but he talks too much. Party all over?’

‘Except for one couple,’ the other man said, rising from his
box. ‘It’s no use waiting for them. They’ll probably be at it till
morning.’

‘I dare say,’ said Johnny. ‘Why wouldn’t you go in and have a chat
with them yourself? You could do with a drink by this time, I
suppose.’

‘A lot they care whether I could or not,’ the man said bitterly. ‘All
that would happen is that they’d say, “Delighted to see you, Mr
Hardy,” and then wait for me to go to bed.’

‘Ah, now, I wouldn’t say that,’ said Johnny.

‘I’m not asking whether you’d say it or not,’ said the other
savagely. ‘I know it. Here I am, that paid for the party, sitting out
here all night, getting my death of cold, and did my daughter or my
son as much as come to the door to look for me? Did they even notice I
wasn’t there?’

‘Oh, no, no,’ Johnny said politely, talking to him as if he were a
ten-year-old in a tantrum—which, in a sense, Johnny felt he was. The
man might have hundreds of thousands, as Tim said, but there was no
difference in the world between him and a little boy sitting out in
the back on a frosty night, deliberately trying to give himself
pneumonia because his younger brother had got a penny and he
hadn’t. It was no use being hard on a man like that. ‘Children are
very selfish, of course, but what you must remember is that fathers
are selfish, too.’

‘Selfish?’ the other exclaimed angrily. ‘Do you know what those two
cost me between private schools and colleges? Do you know what that
one party tonight cost me? As much as you’d earn in a year!’

‘Oh, I know, I know!’ said Johnny, holding his hands up in
distress. ‘I used to feel the same myself, after the wife died.  I’d
look at the son putting grease on his hair in front of the mirror, and
I’d say to myself, “That’s my grease and that’s my mirror, and he’s
going out to amuse himself with some little piece from the lanes, not
caring whether I’m alive or dead!” And daughters are worse. You’d
expect more from a daughter somehow.’

‘You’d expect what you wouldn’t get,’ the other said
gloomily. ‘There’s that girl inside that I gave everything to, and
she’d think more of some spotty college boy that never earned a pound
in his life. And if I open my mouth, my children look at me as if they
didn’t know was I a fool or a lunatic.’

‘They think you’re old-fashioned, of course,’ said Johnny.  ‘I
know. But all the same you’re not being fair to them.  Children can be
fond enough of you, only you’d never see it till you didn’t care
whether they were or not. That was the mistake I made. If I might have
got an old woman for myself after the missis died, I’d have enjoyed
myself more and seen it sooner. That’s what you should do. You’re a
well-to-do man. You could knock down a very good time for
yourself. Get some lively little piece to spend your money on who’ll
make a fuss over you, and then you won’t begrudge it to them so much.’

‘Yes,’ said the other, ‘to have more of them wishing I was dead so that
they could get at the rest of it.’

He strode across the street without even a goodnight, and Johnny saw
the flood of light on the high steps and heard the dull thud of the
big door behind him.

Sitting by his brazier, waiting for the dawn over the city square,
Johnny felt very fortunate, wise, and good. If ever the man listened
to what he had said, he might be very good to Johnny: he might get him
a proper job as an indoor watchman; he might even give him a little
pension to show his appreciation. If only he took the advice—and it
might sink in after a time—it would be worth every penny of it to
him. Anyway, if only the job continued for another couple of days, the
man would be bound to give him a Christmas box. Five bob. Ten
bob. Even a quid. It would be nothing to a man like that.

Though a realist by conviction, Johnny, too, had his dreams.

(1957)

Source: _Masculine Protest and other stories_ [from _Collection Three_],
Pan Books, 1972, pp. 62-71