Finding Tom Connor

by Sarah-Kate Lynch

  Apart from Brendan himself, that was. Every afternoon he went through the contents of the book to see if any of the names rang a bell but in four-and-a-half years he had to admit that he had reconciled approximately no long-lost families.

  Gerry O’Reilly burst in the door.

  ‘Not a sign of her again, Brendan, but the crowd doesn’t seem to be dropping off at all. Now, what’s the trouble?’

  He strode across to the dark corner where Brendan stood nervously beside Father Kelly, still silently sobbing into his arms.

  ‘Come on, now, Father Kelly, shall we get you home?’ Gerry cajoled, taking in the scene immediately and moving to one side of the priest, indicating that Brendan should take care of the other. ‘We’ll get you home so that you’ll be nice and fresh if the Virgin comes tomorrow.’

  The priest sat bolt upright and shook both men off him, his tears flying around like a lawn sprinkling system.

  ‘That’s what you don’t understand,’ he said, weepily but forcefully. ‘There’ll be no more Virgin. There never was a Virgin. It was Paddy O’Riordan’s fish bouncing off mirrors while he was fornicating in Mary Monaghan’s feather bed. It was a joke, a hoax, a swizz, a have,’ he said, starting to cry again. ‘It was a fish!’

  Brendan and Gerry both stopped and stared at the priest in horror as he collapsed once more onto his arms.

  Then the two men flopped, simultaneously, stunned, onto the benches either side of him.

  The temperature in the room seemed to plummet as they each thought about the consequences of what Father Kelly had just said. Minutes passed.

  ‘He was never there,’ whispered Gerry, staring straight out into the bleakness of his future. ‘Paddy O’Riordan was never there when she appeared.’

  ‘Who was he fornicating with in Mary Monaghan’s bed?’ Brendan breathed.

  ‘And there was Maeve, regular as clockwork, kneeling at the front with her rosary beads clicking like knitting needles,’ Gerry continued. ‘And Paddy driving around town in that ridiculous van with a huge smile plastered all over his adulterating bloody face.’

  ‘Who was he fornicating with in Mary Monaghan’s bed?’ Brendan asked again, confused.

  ‘One clue: not a virgin,’ the priest shouted in a muffled voice from inside the crook of his elbow.

  ‘This isn’t good, is it Gerry?’ Brendan asked, looking at his friend, wide eyed.

  ‘No it isn’t, Brendan. Not good at all,’ agreed Gerry, his mind racing. ‘And if we don’t get this clown home to his bed this instant it’ll get a whole lot worse.’

  Across the bar the door opened and Maeve O’Riordan walked hesitantly in, stopping inside the door as though walking any further would for ever taint her.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Gerry O’Reilly murmured under his breath. ‘The princess of doom herself, of all the bad luck in the world.’

  ‘Open the book,’ he hissed at Brendan. ‘Open the bloody book.’

  Gerry held up the head and arms of the practically comatose priest while Brendan flipped open the Book of Relations. Father Kelly flopped back on top of it.

  ‘Is that you, Brendan Byrne?’ Maeve asked in her mean little voice, squinting into the darkness.

  ‘Yes, it is, Maeve. How are you?’

  ‘What are you doing back there?’

  Gerry gesticulated wildly at Brendan to go over and head Maeve off.

  ‘Nothing at all, Maeve,’ he said cheerfully, stepping out of the dark shadows and over towards her. ‘How can I help you? Is it a drink you’re after?’

  She scorched him with her mean little eyes.

  ‘How long have you know me, Brendan Byrne?’ she asked.

  ‘All my life and what a pleasure it has been, too,’ Brendan said.

  ‘And how many times have you seen me come in here to this—’ she looked around her in disgust, ‘this place of yours and ask for a drink?’

  Brendan thought about it.

  ‘That would be never, then, would it, Maeve?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘That’s right, you eejit. I’m here looking for young Father Kelly and Mickey O’Meara says he saw him come in here.’

  She peered back into the darkness again at which point, unfortunately, Father Kelly let rip a loud and terrifying belch.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Gerry O’Reilly, standing up out of the shadows and moving a step or two forward so Maeve could see him.

  ‘I’m going to have to talk to Seamus Mahoney about those hot-dogs of his. Talk about spicy!’

  Maeve flicked him a look of deep repulsion.

  ‘Is that young Father Kelly back there?’ she said, peering harder into the darkness. ‘Father Kelly?’

  They may be small and mean but they’re the eyes of a hawk just the same, thought Gerry.

  ‘That’s right, Maeve, it is Father Kelly, only—’

  ‘Only he came in earlier asking for the Book of Relations,’ Brendan said, having a brainwave. ‘Hasn’t the dedicated young man been poring over it for hours and hours now? He was desperate, Maeve — you should have seen him, desperate — to start finding some of these long-lost uncles and aunties of ours and reunite them with their nieces and nephews and what-have-you in America and Australia and all over who are, you know,’ he trailed off weakly, ‘looking for them.’

  ‘Father Kelly?’ called Maeve again, suspiciously. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘To further reunite the one holy, catholic and apostolic Church, Maeve,’ Gerry piped up with religious fervour. ‘At least that’s what the poor fellow told me before he collapsed with the exhaustion of it all. That’s what staying up all night praying for the Virgin to appear can do to a young fellow, I suppose.’

  Maeve let it all soak in. The young priest was bound to be trying extra hard to make a good impression what with finding the shoes of Father Cahill so hard to fill and all, she thought. And what better way to do that than to try to strengthen the bonds of the church by bringing together its far-flung flock? Sure and why else would he be asleep at the back of Brendan Byrne’s swillery?

  ‘Right so,’ she said, turning to leave. ‘Will you tell the poor fellow I’m looking for him when he wakes up? I think we need a novena,’ and she pushed open the door and scuttled outside.

  ‘Brendan,’ said Gerry, turning to his friend. ‘You’ve just saved the village of Ballymahoe, do you realise that?’

  Chapter 25

  Sunday, 21 February 1999

  Naturally, she missed the first bus.

  It wasn’t until the morning light filled the room and finally hit her in the face that Molly woke from the awful sleep that usually follows large amounts of alcohol and crying.

  Keeping thoughts of the previous night at bay, she tidied up the room as best she could, and patched herself up in the women’s toilets.

  The makeup that had looked so fetching the night before now made her look like the lead character in a foreign art film. Her broken arm was throbbing, her black eye was a smorgasbord of purples and blues and yellows and her head hurt like hell.

  Making her way out into the village, she headed directly for the cake shop.

  ‘Good morning, dear,’ said the woman behind the counter. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Can I please have four cream buns and what time does the next bus go to Cork?’

  ‘Any moment now, dear. Four, you say?’

  Molly nodded and resisted the urge to reach out and grab the lemon-looking tarts in front of her and shove them down her throat. She had one mighty big hole in need of filling.

  ‘So did you enjoy yourself last night, then?’ the woman asked as she carefully plucked the buns off their tray and put them in a bag.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Molly answered politely, racking her brains for any clue as to who the woman was.

  ‘Young Pohraig certainly seemed to be enjoying himself.’

  Molly felt a pain pierce her heart. Don’t let me think about him, she begged herself. ‘Mmm,’ she agreed, smiling stiffly and checkin
g out the mince pies.

  ‘We’ve not seen him out and about like that since, well, you know …’ the woman’s eyes were on her like a hawk, looking for signs that Molly knew what she was talking about.

  ‘Well, it’s to be expected,’ Molly said, not knowing, her stomach lurching. Since what? ‘How much do I owe you for the buns?’

  ‘On the house, dear,’ the woman said, disappointed. ‘And there’s your bus now just about to leave. Better race, you wouldn’t want to miss it.’ And Molly grabbed her bagful of buns and shot outside, bashing on the bus doors just as the driver was about to pull out of the stop. That old bag — why hadn’t she told her the bus had arrived?

  The extremely cranky-looking bus driver finally opened the door and let Molly on.

  ‘Can I please go to Bally, oh, Bally, um, Bally, Bally, it’s in Cork,’ she said, helpfully.

  ‘Only go to Cork,’ the driver said. ‘A tenner.’

  ‘Yes, it’s in Cork,’ Molly insisted. ‘Bally something.’

  ‘Only go to Cork. A tenner,’ the driver repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Molly putting on her speaking-to-idiots voice, ‘it is in Cork.’

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ a wiry little man sitting behind the driver piped up. ‘The bus goes to Cork City and you want County Cork.’

  ‘I do?’ said Molly.

  ‘You do,’ said the wiry little man.

  ‘There’s a difference?’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘A tenner,’ said the bus driver, taking her money and accelerating with a lurch.

  Sitting down behind the wiry little man, Molly felt sick, and not for reasons of being hung over and humiliated, but more to do with having not a clue in the world where she was going.

  ‘How far away from Cork City is Cork County?’ she asked the wiry little man, who looked quite thrilled by her obvious dilemma.

  ‘Well, it’s right there in it,’ he said, ‘but there’s an awful lot besides. Where are you heading for exactly?’

  Molly cursed herself for not listening to Viv more carefully.

  ‘Bally something,’ she said miserably. ‘In East Cork, maybe? Or West?’

  ‘Oh, good luck to you,’ roared the little man. ‘There must be a hundred Bally somethings in County Cork. You haven’t a show of finding the right one, has she now?’ he said, turning to a cross-faced woman on the other side of the bus, who looked out the window and pretended she hadn’t heard.

  ‘Ballyhoo!,’ Molly suddenly remembered. ‘It’s something like Ballyhoo.’

  The wiry little man thought for a moment.

  ‘Isn’t there a Ballyhooly near Fermoy?’ he asked Cross Face, but she was still pretending not to notice him.

  ‘Hooly doesn’t ring any bells,’ said Molly, picking at a bun. ‘Can you think of any more?’

  ‘Well, there’s Ballymahoe down in West Cork but you probably would have remembered that because it’s famous.’

  ‘Ballymahoe! That’s it!’ Molly said excitedly. ‘What’s it famous for?’

  ‘Only the Virgin Mary appearing there,’ said the man. ‘Did you not hear about it where you’re from?’

  Molly looked blank.

  ‘My brother saw her there all right,’ a voice from behind them chirped up.

  Molly turned around and two seats back was a little old lady, wrapped up in a bright red ski jacket, with a tea cosy-like hat. She looked like the sort of woman you’d want as a grandmother.

  ‘Your brother saw the Virgin Mary?’ the wiry little man asked.

  ‘That’s right. He got the bus from Fenaghmure where he was living and drove three hours to the grotto at Ballymahoe. It was a howling wind, he said, a howling wind. And he and his friend Neddy Sullivan stood there, pitched against it, their eyes watering, and after an hour the whole hillside lit up and there she was, in a blaze of lights, crossing in front of them.’

  The little grandma crossed herself.

  ‘The moment she disappeared, didn’t it start to pour down with rain and Kevin and Neddy got soaked to the bone getting back to the bus. And do you know what?’ she leaned over the seat in front of her. ‘By the time they got back home they was both as dry as a bone!’ She sat back in her seat and turned to look out at the drizzly countryside.

  ‘Ballymahoe,’ said Molly. ‘I’m going to Ballymahoe.’ Although God knows what awaits me there, she thought.

  Chapter 26

  1989

  When Father Kelly woke up, he assumed he had died and gone to hell.

  His eyes were glued together, his tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth and at least a dozen tiny little men were hammering at the inside of his head with pick-axes.

  On top of that, some sort of acid trail was burning holes in his oesophagus and a disgusting bile was swilling around in his stomach, looking for a way out. Every bone in his body ached and he was hot, so hot. It was just the way he always thought hell would be except nobody had ever mentioned the tight, burning sensation around the throat.

  No doubt the devil had him chained up to some incinerator and was whispering with his cohorts about his plans for the newly deceased priest. Well, there was a lot of whispering going on anyway.

  He groaned and, using all of the brainpower and co-ordination he still had at his command, which wasn’t an awful lot, he reached one hand up to his stinging Adam’s apple. Through the fug he realised that it was his own dog collar strangling him. Well, at least he remained clothed, the devil had allowed him that.

  The whispering was getting louder. He groaned again as the little men hacked harder at his head. The whispering was coming closer still. Did Satan torture all priests this way or was it Father Kelly’s particular devotion to the church that had brought him such unwanted attention?

  Well, he wouldn’t fold, he thought deliriously. He wouldn’t crumple. He would just lie here very still and say the Lord’s Prayer.

  ‘Our Father,’ he croaked, ‘who art in heaven …’ but something had hold of his arm, something was shaking him. Something was getting ready to throw him into the depths of the fiery pit.

  The priest opened his eyes and screamed.

  What in the Lord’s name was Gerry O’Reilly doing in hell? And Brendan Byrne there with him?

  ‘He looks green, all right,’ Brendan said.

  ‘What’s wrong with his eyes?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘I think it’s just the drink,’ Brendan answered, peering slightly closer into the priest’s face. ‘Jesus, the breath on him. Perhaps they are bulging a bit. What do you think?’

  Gerry’s face loomed closer and the priest’s hands flew up, claw-like, to protect his face.

  ‘If I didn’t know better I would think he was scared,’ Gerry surmised.

  The priest blinked, as comprehension filtered past the pick-axers’ barricade.

  ‘Where am I?’ he whispered. ‘What has happened?’

  Brendan looked at Gerry and said, ‘You tell him,’ but Gerry was still checking the priest for obvious signs of amnesia.

  In the moment’s silence that this took, the phone rang, splintering the air and causing the priest again to scream.

  ‘Would you like me to get that for you, Father?’ Brendan asked, moving towards the phone. Without waiting for a reply he picked it up and answered it.

  ‘Ah, now that’s terribly sad,’ he said into the receiver. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I’ll pass that on to Father Kelly, then, will I? He’s not well at the moment himself as it happens. Well, obviously not as serious as that, no. Myself and Gerry O’Reilly are just checking up on him if you must know, Jenny. What do you mean some sort of a commune? Well, if you spent less time ‘hearing’ what was going on and more time minding your own business the world would be a better place. You’re right, I’m sorry. Condolences again then. Look, I’d better go but I’ll make sure and tell Father your news, okay? Goodbye, Jenny.’

  Brendan put the phone down. ‘That was Jenny O’Brien. Mary Monaghan passed away in her sleep, God rest her soul.’
>
  He looked at Gerry, who raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly, before turning again to the priest, still prone on the sofa, twisted up in a peggy-square rug lovingly crocheted for Father Cahill by some faithful parishioner, probably Maeve O’Riordan, in a rather nauseating combination of orange, purple and brown.

  ‘Mary Monaghan?’ croaked the priest, pulling at his collar, as if for air. ‘Mary Monaghan.’ He groaned and rolled over on the sofa, hiding his face in its cushions.

  Gerry sat down in the chair closest to the priest’s head, Brendan moving to stand behind it.

  ‘Father Kelly,’ Gerry said. The priest’s reply was muffled by the sofa cushions.

  ‘Father Kelly,’ he repeated, more firmly. Still the priest remained buried.

  ‘Father Kelly, we need to talk,’ and he leaned over and rolled the priest onto his back.

  ‘We need to talk fairly urgently.’

  The priest turned slowly to look at him, his eyes red kaleidoscopes.

  ‘Is it true?’ Father Kelly whispered. ‘Did Paddy O’Riordan fake the Virgin Mary, Gerry?’

  ‘Well, that’s what you yourself told us last night in your cups, Father,’ Brendan offered.

  ‘So you’ve either lied or broken the very holy and sacred secret seal of the confessional,’ Gerry told him in a sympathetic voice. ‘Which one is it?’

  The priest stared at him in horror.

  ‘I am in hell,’ he whispered painfully.

  ‘Big whopper or holy sacred seal?’ Gerry insisted.

  ‘Second one,’ the priest finally admitted, almost inaudibly. ‘Sacred. Broken.’

  Gerry and Brendan swapped a pleased look.

  ‘Well, that’s what we thought, Father,’ said Gerry, ‘and I can only imagine the terrible guilt and torment you must be suffering now, not only from having heard the widow’s shocking confession in the first place, but from repeating every last detail to myself and Brendan while under the influence of the demon alcohol.’

  Brendan wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard the priest whimper.