‘Ah, what perjure!’ Norton replied wearily. ‘Sure, can’t you say a few words for the boy? No one is asking you to say much. What harm will it do you to tell the judge he’s an honest, good-living, upright lad, and that he took the money without meaning any harm?’
‘My God!’ muttered the priest, running his hands distractedly through his grey hair. ‘There’s no talking to ye, no talking to ye, ye lot of sheep.’
When he was gone the committeemen turned and looked at one another in bewilderment.
‘That man is a terrible trial,’ said one.
‘He’s a tyrant,’ said Daly vindictively.
‘He is, indeed,’ sighed Norton, scratching his head. ‘But in God’s holy name, boys, before we do anything, we’ll give him one more chance.’
That evening when he was at his tea the committeemen called again. This time they looked very spruce, businesslike, and independent. Father Crowley glared at them.
‘Are ye back?’ he asked bitterly. ‘I was thinking ye would be. I declare to my goodness, I’m sick of ye and yeer old committee.’
‘Oh, we’re not the committee, father,’ said Norton stiffly.
‘Ye’re not?’
‘We’re not.’
‘All I can say is, ye look mighty like it. And, if I’m not being impertinent, who the deuce are ye?’
‘We’re a deputation, father.’
‘Oh, a deputation! Fancy that, now. And a deputation from what?’
‘A deputation from the parish, father. Now, maybe you’ll listen to us.’
‘Oh, go on! I’m listening, I’m listening.’
‘Well, now, ’tis like this, father,’ said Norton, dropping his airs and graces and leaning against the table. ‘ ’Tis about that little business this morning. Now, father, maybe you don’t understand us and we don’t understand you. There’s a lot of misunderstanding in the world today, father. But we’re quiet simple poor men that want to do the best we can for everybody, and a few words or a few pounds wouldn’t stand in our way. Now, do you follow me?’
‘I declare,’ said Father Crowley, resting his elbows on the table, ‘I don’t know whether I do or not.’
‘Well, ’tis like this, father. We don’t want any blame on the parish or on the Cronins, and you’re the one man that can save us. Now all we ask of you is to give the boy a character – ’
‘Yes, father,’ interrupted the chorus, ‘give him a character! Give him a character!’
‘Give him a character, father, and you won’t be troubled by him again. Don’t say no to me now till you hear what I have to say. We won’t ask you to go next, nigh or near the court. You have pen and ink beside you and one couple of lines is all you need write. When ’tis over you can hand Michael John his ticket to America and tell him not to show his face in Carricknabreena again. There’s the price of his ticket, father,’ he added, clapping a bundle of notes on the table. ‘The Cronins themselves made it up, and we have his mother’s word and his own word that he’ll clear out the minute ’tis all over.’
‘He can go to pot!’ retorted the priest. ‘What is it to me where he goes?’
‘Now, father, can’t you be patient?’ Norton asked reproachfully. ‘Can’t you let me finish what I’m saying? We know ’tis no advantage to you, and that’s the very thing we came to talk about. Now, supposing – just supposing for the sake of argument – that you do what we say, there’s a few of us here, and between us, we’d raise whatever little contribution to the parish fund you’d think would be reasonable to cover the expense and trouble to yourself. Now do you follow me?’
‘Con Norton,’ said Father Crowley, rising and holding the edge of the table, ‘I follow you. This morning it was perjury, and now ’tis bribery, and the Lord knows what ’twill be next. I see I’ve been wasting my breath.… And I see too,’ he added savagely, leaning across the table towards them, ‘a pedigree bull would be more use to ye than a priest.’
‘What do you mean by that, father?’ asked Norton in a low voice.
‘What I say.’
‘And that’s a saying that will be remembered for you the longest day you live,’ hissed Norton, leaning towards him till they were glaring at one another over the table.
‘A bull,’ gasped Father Crowley. ‘Not a priest.’
‘ ’Twill be remembered.’
‘Will it? Then remember this too. I’m an old man now. I’m forty years a priest, and I’m not a priest for the money or power or glory of it, like others I know. I gave the best that was in me – maybe ’twasn’t much but ’twas more than many a better man would give, and at the end of my days…’ lowering his voice to a whisper he searched them with his terrible eyes, ‘…at the end of my days, if I did a wrong thing, or a bad thing, or an unjust thing, there isn’t man or woman in this parish that would brave me to my face and call me a villain. And isn’t that a poor story for an old man that tried to be a good priest?’ His voice changed again and he raised his head defiantly. ‘Now get out before I kick you out!’
And true to his word and character not one word did he say in Michael John’s favour the day of the trial, no more than if he was a black. Three months Michael John got and by all accounts he got off light.
He was a changed man when he came out of jail, downcast and dark in himself. Everyone was sorry for him, and people who had never spoken to him before spoke to him then. To all of them he said modestly: ‘I’m very grateful to you, friend, for overlooking my misfortune.’ As he wouldn’t go to America, the committee made another whip-round and between what they had collected before and what the Cronins had made up to send him to America, he found himself with enough to open a small shop. Then he got a job in the County Council, and an agency for some shipping company, till at last he was able to buy a public-house.
As for Father Crowley, till he was shifted twelve months later, he never did a day’s good in the parish. The dues went down and the presents went down, and people with money to spend on Masses took it fifty miles away sooner than leave it to him. They said it broke his heart.
He has left unpleasant memories behind him. Only for him, people say, Michael John would be in America now. Only for him he would never have married a girl with money, or had it to lend to poor people in the hard times, or ever sucked the blood of Christians. For, as an old man said to me of him: ‘A robber he is and was, and a grabber like his grandfather before him, and an enemy of the people like his uncle, the policeman; and though some say he’ll dip his hand where he dipped it before, for myself I have no hope unless the mercy of God would send us another Moses or Brian Boru to cast him down and hammer him in the dust.’
The Bridal Night
It was sunset, and the two great humps of rock made a twilight in the cove where the boats were lying high up the strand. There was one light only in a little whitewashed cottage. Around the headland came a boat and the heavy dipping of its oars was like a heron’s flight. The old woman was sitting on the low stone wall outside her cottage.
‘Tis a lonesome place,’ said I.
‘Tis so,’ she agreed, ‘a lonesome place, but any place is lonesome without one you’d care for.’
‘Your own flock are gone from you, I suppose?’ I asked.
‘I never had but the one,’ she replied, ‘the one son only,’ and I knew because she did not add a prayer for his soul that he was still alive.
‘Is it in America he is?’ I asked. (It is to America all the boys of the locality go when they leave home.)
‘No, then,’ she replied simply. ‘It is in the asylum in Cork he is on me these twelve years.’
I had no fear of trespassing on her emotions. These lonesome people in wild places, it is their nature to speak; they must cry out their sorrows like the wild birds.
‘God help us!’ I said. ‘Far enough!’
‘Far enough,’ she sighed. ‘Too far for an old woman. There was a nice priest here one time brought me up in his car to see him. All the ways to this wild place he brought i
t, and he drove me into the city. It is a place I was never used to, but it eased my mind to see poor Denis well-cared-for and well-liked. It was a trouble to me before that, not knowing would they see what a good boy he was before his madness came on him. He knew me; he saluted me, but he said nothing until the superintendent came to tell me the tea was ready for me. Then poor Denis raised his head and says: “Leave ye not forget the toast. She was ever a great one for her bit of toast.” It seemed to give him ease and he cried after. A good boy he was and is. It was like him after seven long years to think of his old mother and her little bit of toast.’
‘God help us,’ I said for her voice was like the birds’, hurrying high, immensely high, in the coloured light, out to sea to the last islands where their nests were.
‘Blessed be His holy will,’ the old woman added, ‘there is no turning aside what is in store. It was a teacher that was here at the time. Miss Regan her name was. She was a fine big jolly girl from the town. Her father had a shop there. They said she had three hundred pounds to her own cheek the day she set foot in the school, and – ’tis hard to believe but ’tis what they all said: I will not belie her – ’twasn’t banished she was at all but she came here of her own choice, for the great liking she had for the sea and the mountains. Now, that is the story, and with my own eyes I saw her, day in day out, coming down the little pathway you came yourself from the road and sitting beyond there in a hollow you can hardly see, out of the wind. The neighbours could make nothing of it, and she being a stranger, and with only the book Irish, they left her alone. It never seemed to take a peg out of her, only sitting in that hole in the rocks, as happy as the day is long, reading her little book or writing her letters. Of an odd time she might bring one of the little scholars along with her to be picking posies.
‘That was where my Denis saw her. He’d go up to her of an evening and sit on the grass beside her, and off and on he might take her out in the boat with him. And she’d say with that big laugh of hers: “Denis is my beau.” Those now were her words and she meant no more harm by it than the child unborn, and I knew it and Denis knew it, and it was a little joke we had, the three of us. It was the same way she used to joke about her little hollow. “Mrs Sullivan,” she’d say, “leave no one near it. It is my nest and my cell and my little prayer-house, and maybe I would be like the birds and catch the smell of the stranger and then fly away from ye all.” It did me good to hear her laugh, and whenever I saw Denis moping or idle I would say it to him myself: “Denis, why wouldn’t you go out and pay your attentions to Miss Regan and all saying you are her intended?” It was only a joke. I would say the same thing to her face, for Denis was such a quiet boy, no way rough or accustomed to the girls at all – and how would he in this lonesome place?
‘I will not belie her; it was she saw first that poor Denis was after more than company, and it was not to this cove she came at all then but to the little cove beyond the headland, and ’tis hardly she would go there itself without a little scholar along with her. “Ah,” I says, for I missed her company, “isn’t it the great stranger Miss Regan is becoming?” and Denis would put on his coat and go hunting in the dusk till he came to whatever spot she was. Little ease that was to him, poor boy, for he lost his tongue entirely, and lying on his belly before her, chewing an old bit of grass, is all he would do till she got up and left him. He could not help himself, poor boy. The madness was on him, even then, and it was only when I saw the plunder done that I knew there was no cure for him only to put her out of his mind entirely. For ’twas madness in him and he knew it, and that was what made him lose his tongue – he that was maybe without the price of an ounce of ’baccy – I will not deny it: often enough he had to do without it when the hens would not be laying, and often enough stirabout and praties was all we had for days. And there was she with money to her name in the bank! And that wasn’t all, for he was a good boy; a quiet, good-natured boy, and another would take pity on him, knowing he would make her a fine steady husband, but she was not the sort, and well I knew it from the first day I laid eyes on her, that her hand would never rock the cradle. There was the madness out and out.
‘So here was I, pulling and hauling, coaxing him to stop at home, and hiding whatever little thing was to be done till evening the way his hands would not be idle. But he had no heart in the work, only listening, always listening, or climbing the cnuceen to see would he catch a glimpse of her coming or going. And, oh, Mary, the heavy sigh he’d give when his bit of supper was over and I bolting the house for the night, and he with the long hours of darkness forninst him – my heart was broken thinking of it. It was the madness, you see. It was on him. He could hardly sleep or eat, and at night I would hear him, turning and groaning as loud as the sea on the rocks.
‘It was then when the sleep was a fever to him that he took to walking in the night. I remember well the first night I heard him lift the latch. I put on my few things and went out after him. It was standing here I heard his feet on the stile. I went back and latched the door and hurried after him. What else could I do, and this place terrible after the fall of night with rocks and hills and water and streams, and he, poor soul, blinded with the dint of sleep. He travelled the road a piece, and then took to the hills and I followed him with my legs all torn with briars and furze. It was over beyond by the new house that he gave up. He turned to me then the way a little child that is running away turns and clings to your knees; he turned to me and said: “Mother, we’ll go home now. It was the bad day for you ever you brought me into the world.” And as the day was breaking I got him back to bed and covered him up to sleep.
‘I was hoping that in time he’d wear himself out, but it was worse he was getting. I was a strong woman then, a mayen-strong woman. I could cart a load of seaweed or dig a field with any man, but the night-walking broke me. I knelt one night before the Blessed Virgin and prayed whatever was to happen, it would happen while the light of life was in me, the way I would not be leaving him lonesome like that in a wild place.
‘And it happened the way I prayed. Blessed be God, he woke that night or the next night on me and he roaring. I went in to him but I couldn’t hold him. He had the strength of five men. So I went out and locked the door behind me. It was down the hill I faced in the starlight to the little house above the cove. The Donoghues came with me: I will not belie them; they were fine powerful men and good neighbours. The father and the two sons came with me and brought the rope from the boats. It was a hard struggle they had of it and a long time before they got him on the floor, and a longer time before they got the ropes on him. And when they had him tied they put him back into bed for me, and I covered him up, nice and decent, and put a hot stone to his feet to take the chill of the cold floor off him.
‘Sean Donoghue spent the night sitting beside the fire with me, and in the morning he sent one of the boys off for the doctor. Then Denis called me in his own voice and I went into him. “Mother,” says Denis, “will you leave me this way against the time they come for me?” I hadn’t the heart. God knows I hadn’t. “Don’t do it, Peg,” says Sean. “If ’twas a hard job trussing him before, it will be harder the next time, and I won’t answer for it.”
‘ “You’re a kind neighbour, Sean,” says I, “and I would never make little of you, but he is the only son I ever reared and I’d sooner he’d kill me now than shame him at the last.”
‘So I loosened the ropes on him and he lay there very quiet all day without breaking his fast. Coming on to evening he asked me for the sup of tea and he drank it, and soon after the doctor and another man came in the car. They said a few words to Denis but he made them no answer and the doctor gave me the bit of writing. “It will be tomorrow before they come for him,” says he, “and ’tisn’t right for you to be alone in the house with the man.” But I said I would stop with him and Sean Donoghue said the same.
‘When darkness came on there was a little bit of a wind blew up from the sea and Denis began to rave to himself, and it wa
s her name he was calling all the time. “Winnie,” that was her name, and it was the first time I heard it spoken. “Who is that he is calling?” says Sean. “It is the schoolmistress,” says I, “for though I do not recognize the name, I know ’tis no one else he’d be asking for.” “That is a bad sign,” says Sean. “He’ll get worse as the night goes on and the wind rises. ’Twould be better for me go down and get the boys to put the ropes on him again while he’s quiet.” And it was then something struck me, and I said: “May be if she came to him herself for a minute he would be quiet after.” “We can try it anyway,” says Sean, “and if the girl has a kind heart she will come.”
‘It was Sean that went up for her. I would not have the courage to ask her. Her little house is there on the edge of the hill; you can see it as you go back the road with the bit of garden before it the new teacher left grow wild. And it was a true word Sean said for ’twas worse Denis was getting, shouting out against the wind for us to get Winnie for him. Sean was a long time away or maybe I felt it long, and I thought it might be the way she was afeared to come. There are many like that, small blame to them. Then I heard her step that I knew so well on the boreen beside the house and I ran to the door, meaning to say I was sorry for the trouble we were giving her, but when I opened the door Denis called out her name in a loud voice, and the crying fit came on me, thinking how light-hearted we used to be together.
‘I couldn’t help it, and she pushed in apast me into the bedroom with her face as white as that wall. The candle was lighting on the dresser. He turned to her roaring with the mad look in his eyes, and then went quiet all of a sudden, seeing her like that overright him with her hair all rumbled in the wind. I was coming behind her. I heard it. He put up his two poor hands and the red mark of the ropes on his wrists and whispered to her: “Winnie, asthore, isn’t it the long time you were away from me?”
My Oedipus Complex Page 28