by Jim Haynes
As soon as the stationmaster opened the door of the office I noticed an envelope lying face downward on the floor. While he was reaching for the paper I had to sign I picked it up and having turned it over, read the name on it aloud, ‘Mr Michael McShane.’ It must have fallen unnoticed from the bag. I handed it to Grimwade. He glanced at it, expressed no regret in the matter, but shot it into the box where the leftover mail was kept and grunted, ‘He can get it next week,’ almost as if matters couldn’t have arranged themselves more to his liking.
There was a sound of young Marchant rising to his feet. He stood in the doorway. ‘Give it here!’ he demanded. ‘I’ll go after him; poor old coot!’
It was Grimwade’s chance to be official, offensive to Harry in strict accordance with the Regulations, and mean all round.
He glanced from the letter to the young man, and then at me. I am not very good in a situation that arises suddenly, but I must have met his glance with an unfriendly look. He handed the letter to Harry and turned again to the business of the docket I had to sign.
Harry winked at me, and a minute later he was mounted and clattering off on the track to McShane’s. I saw the last of him through the timber as I climbed into the buckboard to drive home. He would overtake Old Mac something less than halfway along the track to his camp.
I could just see Old Mac stumping along his pad through the scrub, one of the props of his days suddenly missing, feeling forlorn, looking forward to a week of wondering. He would be surprised at hearing hooves coming up behind him on that untravelled track. He would be very happy to think that another man thought well enough of him to do him a good turn like that. And then there would be the letter from Colleen. I imagined Old Mac would be light-hearted that evening, in his lonely camp.
THE HAGNEY AFFAIR
‘BRIAN JAMES’
(JOHN TIERNEY)
AS A YOUNG MAN, fresh from his native Cork, Father Moran had been counted extraordinarily handsome. In those early days he had pioneered the new parish—nearly as big as all Ireland it was—with an energy as great as his ability.
Not so handsome now, but still remarkable—black waves of hair turning to white, big face growing craggy, mouth growing hard, nose losing its shapeliness and more inclined to resemble the beak of an eagle, figure losing its ease and grace. But the blue eyes—despite occasional use of glasses—were bright; as hard and piercing as ever. The mind was as alert, the memory as retentive, the tongue as eloquent. He was more intolerant, more impatient of opposition, more tyrannical.
He ruled his flock with a calculated harshness. His people admired him, respected him, were even proud of his uniqueness among clerics; but they feared him, and some there must have been who hated him. This proud man had had only two human contacts—two concessions to human needs. One of those had been his friendship with Hagney, the solicitor; the other, his affection for his niece.
Hagney, Matthew Hagney, as became a ‘family solicitor’, was quietly wealthy, of active middle age, always well groomed, always well attired, silver-grey beard clipped to a neat point. In learning and intellectual quality he came near Father Moran himself. Apart from that they were quite unalike.
The niece, Miss Cathleen Moran, had a family resemblance to her uncle, but was like him in nothing else. She had come out from Ireland long ago to keep house for Father Moran. She was not young, but a fine woman still. She advanced gracefully with the years.
When Father Moran went to Ireland on extended leave Mr Hagney and Miss Moran were married—very quietly.
For some reason Mr and Mrs Hagney did not inform Father Moran either of their intention or of the marriage when it had taken place. No doubt they had good and sufficient reasons, or perhaps they thought to give the good cleric a surprise.
If this last was their object, it succeeded admirably. Father Moran, on his return to the Cookabundy, was surprised; and fumed and raged in his surprise. All friendly relations with the Hagneys ceased forthwith, though his real anger was for Hagney.
His years, no doubt, were largely responsible for this unreasonable anger, and for what followed when, Sunday after Sunday, he began to preach sermons in which the word ‘clandestine’ was rather overworked. The word was pointed at Hagney every time, no matter what the subject might have been. Hagney and his wife ignored the thrusts and sat it out, as it were.
Then very suddenly, Mrs Hagney died. There might have been reconciliation at this point. But there wasn’t.
After the first pangs of his loss, Father Moran prayed publicly for his niece, said masses and masses for her, exhorted the congregation to offer fervent prayers for her, introduced her into his sermons, more than hinted at the treachery that had robbed him of her. Still Mr Hagney sat it out—he might not have heard a word for all the sign he gave, staring straight before him, as still as though he were carved in stone.
And then at last, one Sunday when a reference to the evil consequences of a ‘clandestine’ marriage was too personal and too pointed to be borne, Mr Hagney rose from his seat.
In a voice cold, clear, tremorless, he spoke, ‘Father Moran, you have seen fit to attack me Sunday after Sunday, in this our house of worship. While I appreciate the depths of your grief, it must stop now.’
Mr Hagney sat down, and stared before him, still as a rock once more.
No one seemed to breathe; there might not have been a living soul in that church. Perhaps some were tensed for the bolt from heaven that must fall to destroy the holy place now so defiled. Father Moran was turned to statue, a statue with living moveless eyes that were focused forever on Mr Hagney.
Two, three seconds at the most but an age in living; then he turned to the pulpit step, walked slowly down, crossed the sanctuary, seeming to grow smaller, older and crushed beneath some unaccountable burden as he proceeded. Then he sat on his chair, on the gospel side of the altar, while the collection was being taken. He stared, still as a rock, over the sanctuary. It might have all been a dream.
The congregation stirred—guiltily it seemed, as though any movement was added profanation. Breaths were released audibly.
Then the very relief of looking in purses and pockets for coins, the tramp of the collectors down the aisles, and the sounds of threepences and sixpences in the brass plates. When the service was over at last Mr Hagney walked as always from the door to his carriage. He stopped nowhere, nodded to friends and acquaintances, never noticed that every eye was upon him and pretending not to be. He drove off.
Of course, during the week, the event was broached and savoured, but there was no full taste to it, only a sort of astringency like a green persimmon.
Certainly Kelly at the Contingent spoke of it, waiting a fit opportunity when the Protestants might not hear, for he said the Protestants were licking their very lips for it.
‘I never did see the like of it,’ said Kelly.
Pat Casey bored the eternal blacknailed forefinger into his hairy ear: ‘Come what might, Kelly, come what might, Father Moran is God’s priest.’ This was relevant and pertinent, for Casey had deep within him the vague desire for salvation, and the conviction that, with the aid of Father Moran, he would reach heaven at last, shaggy, beery, dirty, and unkempt; but he would get there, and no doubt something would be done about his appearance and the trimming up of him.
Teddy Clark came in. Teddy ‘belonged’, and he didn’t. A ‘sport’ and a bookmaker, he hadn’t been to church for years. ‘Just saw Hagney,’ he said, easing his superfluous girth against the bar. ‘Looking seedy, too.’
‘I doubt if he is Irish at all,’ said Pat Casey.
‘He don’t look Irish at all,’ Dinny Regan spoke for the first time. In Dinny was a sturdy pride that he himself looked very Irish. The Irish didn’t share in this pride.
‘Look at his beard!’ said Pat. ‘Ever see an Irishman wid a beard like that?’
No one could recall such a thing, now that Pat mentioned it.
‘But he’s up against it now, if you ask me,’ said Teddy.<
br />
They all had another drink on the strength of that.
Next Sunday the crowd at the ‘’leven o’clock’ was a record.
And Teddy was a part of that record crowd; so was Dinny Regan; and so were scores of others who found, after varying lapses of time, that the ‘ould faith’ was still strong within them.
Every seat was taken, every available space for standing at the back was filled and packed.
And then came the surprise. The Bishop of the Diocese was to be the celebrant. The Bishop! Unannounced and never even thought of. He preached, too, a very brief sermon for a bishop who had come hundreds of miles to do it. A mild sermon and kindly—just like the Bishop himself.
But there must be some connection between his visit and the happenings of last Sunday. And there was sure enough. The Bishop was really there to bless the church—or to re-bless it.
Up and down the aisles before Mass went the Bishop and Father Moran and the altar boys. Incense and holy water and the solemn intoning of blessing and dedication.
And all the time Hagney in his place, still alive, still not struck down, still like stone.
‘I wonder what Hagney will do now?’ said Teddy Clark after the service was over.
‘What can he do?’
That summed up all the curiosity, and perhaps some of the anticipation. But what could Hagney do? If he wasn’t humiliated now all his pride was a hopeless thing. The victory was with Father Moran.
But all victories have the seeds of defeat in them.
The whole town now began to seethe with real excitement. The inevitable sides were taken. And the excitement—and the cleavage—extended to the district for miles around: the Grey Box, Round Swamp, Two Rocks, Tipperary, Kilmarnock.
There seemed to be more afternoon teas than usual, and the row at the church would invariably be introduced, so very casually as if it wasn’t the real reason at all for the afternoon teas. And the row was sweeter than any of the nice cakes that were served.
Then Mr Hagney, Farley Gray, and a few others of influence began a movement to have all church matters—not strictly sacerdotal—brought under the management of a church committee. That was taken as a direct retaliatory measure against the re-blessing of the church.
Two big, separate meetings were held on quite a number of Sundays after mass. One was in the long room at the boys’ school, and the other in the long room at the girls’ school. Hagney ran one, and Teddy Clark, true member of the fold once more, ran the other.
Hagney’s meeting was for the purpose of instituting a church committee, and Teddy Clark’s to defend Father Moran from the indignity of having such a committee. Father Moran, of course, attended neither meeting. But he had runners provided for him to carry the latest intelligence.
After the excitement of the meetings many found it necessary to adjourn to the pubs to recover. The Clark party went to the Contingent.
Mrs Kelly was all draped in very expensive, lacy black. Above the level of the bar she was mostly bosom, and a big red face that was hard, calculating and sweaty. She was saying, ‘And all he’s done for this town—what sort of a place would it be if he hadn’t lived here and toiled this forty years?’
Kelly came in at the moment, but Mrs Kelly didn’t retire. It was almost like a family gathering; even Pat Casey and Paddy Griffin were snarling at each other.
‘It’s up to us to show what we really think of him,’ said Kelly.
That was a popular sentiment. Teddy Clark took it up. ‘You’re right, Kelly. You’re right. Something in a practical way.’
There were more drinks, and more talk, and Paddy Griffin summed up Pat Casey as a ‘shanty Irish’, and Teddy Clark told the two of them to be quiet, and ‘Drink this up, will you?’ and Hagney was damned for his ‘flashness’, and Farley Gray for his meanness, and Regan, the storekeeper, for not taking sides, and a lot of other people for taking sides—the wrong side. But the germ of an idea began to grow out of Teddy Clark’s suggestion of ‘something practical’.
As the days went by, and a lot more talk with them, the plan emerged of making a presentation to Father Moran—as a mark of appreciation from half the town for what he had done for the whole town. It would have to be done properly and in a big way.
The sympathetic ear of Mr Trist (‘our worthy mayor’) was tapped. Mr Trist was delighted at the move. ‘All denominational considerations apart, Father Moran has been a big, a useful, an ornamental part of the very life and progress of this town.’
Mr Trist said this on the tapping of his ear, and repeated it at a small but influential meeting he convened. Though Mr Hagney’s name was not mentioned, his discomfiture was as much the real purpose of the meeting as anything else. It was not to honour St George, but to gloat over the dragon.
The meeting was in the mayor’s room—very secret, for whatever was done was to be a complete surprise to Father Moran. There were many suggestions of suitable presentations, ranging from a portrait in oils to a pair of ponies; from a purse of sovereigns to a memorial drinking fountain.
It was Teddy Clark who said, ‘If I may make bold to say it there are people who might not favour a drinking fountain.’ Everyone saw the point, and everyone smiled, or would have smiled but for Mrs Hawley-Brett, who was not disposed to be amused at anything said by Teddy Clark.
It was decided finally to present the ‘grand old priest’ (the quotation is from Mrs Thompson-Watts) with a pair of ponies, their purchase to be left in the capable hands of Mr Clark; and a purse of sovereigns and an illuminated address. And all this to take place at a grand banquet in the Town Hall.
The whole plan was to be kept secret so that Father Moran might not be embarrassed by foreknowledge of it. Of course, Father Moran was almost immediately apprised of every smallest detail.
Teddy Clark and Tim Noonan, from the livery stables, went into conference, and secured a beautiful pair of black ponies at Bardoo. The deal was shrouded in mystery, but there were not wanting those who declared that Teddy and Tim made a handsome thing out of those ponies.
An obscure artist was rescued from his obscurity and brandy and commissioned to ‘do’ the address, which he did in fine style.
The purse was being every day more heavily loaded with golden sovereigns.
And all the while, the great ‘secret’ being wide open by now, the other half of the town was joyfully supposed to be writhing in futile rage. But that was a very mistaken view. In the excitement it wasn’t noticed at first that though the ‘committee push’, as it was called, had given up its campaign for church management, it was still very active. Now it was evolving a master plan for making a presentation to Mr Hagney.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Trist, when he heard of the matter, ‘a laudable move in every way. What wouldn’t I give to bring together two such outstanding citizens of this town?’
Of course, he meant Father Moran and Mr Hagney, and he was speaking to Farley Gray. Although Farley was anxious to run the whole show himself, he saw that he really belonged to the shire—the perimeter, as it were. He needed the mayor for the more essential centre.
‘Of course, you’re running the Father Moran presentation. A cheap bit of spite that business is, if you ask me.’
‘Laudable, too, Farley; laudable and worthy. A remarkable citizen and a giver of illustrious service.’
‘What about Hagney?’
‘The very embodiment of all that is best. I stand second to none in my admiration of him.’
Farley Gray let it go at that. He was powerless and speechless before this tower of virtue.
So, without seeking, Mr Trist was the guiding spirit of both presentations. The position was a unique one. Only Mr Trist could have filled it. The waves of bitterness that beat on all the shores never reached Mr Trist: he was above group and party.
The banquet was held in the Town Hall on Thursday evening. Turkeys and sucking pigs and young roosters gladly gave up the joys of living to grace the occasion.
Jellies and blancmanges
quivered under the lights; trifles by the ton almost, and no stinting of sherry in them. Long bottles of hock; claret-cup in great bowls; even Summerlea Bing for those who couldn’t stand alcohol.
Mr Trist brought in the guest of honour, and the assembly burst spontaneously into ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’—after Mrs Thompson-Watts began it in her sweet clear voice.
Father Moran somehow looked older; more careworn. But his eye was bright, his gaze steady. He had, too, the comprehensive eye that took in all without looking at anyone.
There were toasts and speeches and replies, and cheers and hear-hears. The right things were said and duly applauded. ‘Our guest’ had that very day completed forty-three years of strenuous work in Summerlea. He was a great churchman, a great townsman. There was the customary admiration and the wonted hope of many more years, etc, etc.
Father Moran spoke with feeling but without warmth, and he spoke eloquently. He spoke as priest and citizen, but not as a preacher. He said exactly the right thing and the correct thing.
But he was pleased with the ponies—Tim Noonan had driven him down to the Hall with the pair of blacks. He knew horses, no one in the whole district—not even Tim Noonan, shrewd as he was—knew half as much. In the years gone by there was no better horseman in the district, and certainly no one who looked half as well on a horse. Yes, he could speak of those trotting ponies with a warmth of feeling.
There was no barest hint of Hagney in it at all. But perhaps Hagney was there just the same, a Banquo at the feast.
Over at last, Mrs Hawley-Brett and Mrs Thompson-Watts were taking leave of the Trists.
‘What a wonderful occasion!’
‘Historic, really!’
‘So spontaneous!’
‘Not one jarring note!’
The stars looked down on the quiet town, iron roofs faintly showing white and silver in the clear starlight. A silence settled down, that was never quite silence, though the lowing of distant and occasional cows blended with it without disturbing it. The big event was over, and now, as Mrs Thompson-Watts had said, a part of history.