The Miracle Man

by James Skivington

  “Plan ahead, did you say? Isn’t the Christian life all about planning ahead, Father? Planning, by our actions in this life, for our existence in the next one? There is nothing – “ he held up an emphatic if wavering index finger, “ – nothing, that will repay an individual as much as devotion to our Blessed Mother – after the Lord Jesus, of course.” What did they teach them nowadays, that he had to come and ask questions like these? He should’ve learned these things at his mother’s knee. Unless, of course, he had been the product of a mixed marriage. Or, given his age and zealousness, had he been ensnared by the principles of Liberation Theology – whatever they were?

  “So I have your support in this, Bishop?”

  “My what?”

  “Your support, Bishop. Your – blessing.”

  Bishop Tooley looked at Father Burke for what seemed like rather a long time and then, suppressing a shake of his head, slowly raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross, whispering,

  “In nomini Patris, et Filiis, et Spiritu Sanctum, Amen.” The Latin still came easiest to him. The young priest at first looked a little bewildered, then smiled hugely and told his superior, “Thank you, Bishop. Thank you very much indeed. You can safely leave this matter entirely in my hands. I’ll keep you fully informed of developments – “ he smiled again, “ – both literal and figurative. And I’ll get to work on plans for that shrine right away.”

  Bishop Tooley was happy at seeing the young priest smile. A little shrine to the Blessed Virgin would be nice. It obviously didn’t take much to please the fellow. A blessing and a few words of encouragement. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so difficult after all. Now perhaps he would go away, settle into his new parish and run it quietly and efficiently. He had met one like this many years before. Made a big fuss at the beginning and then quickly settled down. Hardly ever heard from him after that. Or was he getting him mixed up with the one who ran off with the headmaster’s wife? God willing, this one would go about his business and ensure that both of them had a nice, quiet life.

  Just after lunch-time, and with two stiff whiskies inside him to fortify himself for the coming ordeal, Fergus Keane called Harry Martyn, his editor on the Northern Reporter.

  “Mr Martyn? It’s Fergus Keane here.”

  “Keane? Oh, yes, Keane. What’s the point in saying, ‘It’s Fergus Keane here’? Where the hell is ‘here’?”

  “Inisbreen, Mr Martyn. You know, following up the Mass Rock Miracle story? You printed my piece this morning.”

  “Did I?” There was a pause. “Yes, I suppose I did. It’s a wonder I can remember my own name, the amount of work I’ve got to do around here.”

  “And – it’s an exclusive, Mr Martyn. A complete exclusive. Can you put that on my next piece? I negotiated that with the Miracle Man himself.”

  That was the way to do it. Give him the good news first, and then while he was expressing his approval, slip in the bit about the five hundred.

  “Oh God, you didn’t promise him any money, did you? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred bloody times, Keane. No chequebook journalism. Apart from the fact that it costs money – which this journal does not possess – I don’t hold with it. It’s against my principles. So you’ll just have to tell him he’s getting nothing, d’you understand, not a penny, not a brass razoo. Tell me that you understand, Keane.”

  Fergus Keane, being a university graduate, had thought of this possibility, and had devised a stratagem.

  “But – Mr Martyn, I’ve signed an agreement on behalf of the paper. Doesn’t that constitute a legally binding document? I mean, I wouldn’t want him to sue us or anything. It could cost a fortune. Perhaps even put us out of business altogether.”

  “Oh, God Almighty, how much for, Keane? How much have you signed a bloody document for, you pillock?”

  “Only – five hundred pounds, Mr Martyn.”

  “Five – hundred – pounds!” Each word sounded as if it had been wrung from the very heart of the editor of the Northern Reporter and as such intimated that he would break down and become incoherent at any moment.

  “Five hundred – ? Have you gone totally out of your mind, Keane? Have you any conception,” Mr Martyn’s voice rose to such a pitch that he could have been in contention for female lead at the Royal Opera House, “any clue whatsoever of how many small ads that represents?”

  “But, it’s a world exclusive, Mr Martyn – and the Northern Reporter’s got it.”

  A pitiful groan escaped the editor and slithered down the line to Inisbreen.

  “And you believe it’s a genuine story?”

  “Oh yes, Mr Martyn, I certainly do.”

  “And you think it’s going to run and run, do you?”

  “Definitely, Mr Martyn. Or should I really say, absolutely indefinitely.” Fergus’s modest attempt at humour, which he thought rather good in the circumstances, evoked no response in kind.

  “Well in that case – we’ll pay the money.”

  “Really? Oh, thank you, Mr Martyn. That’s terrific. I can’t say how pleased I am that – ”

  “And it’ll be deducted from your salary.”

  For a moment there was complete silence on the line.

  “But – Mr Martyn – I can’t afford that!”

  “I’ll take it out of your salary rise.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know I was getting one.”

  “You won’t be. Not for the next three years,” the last two words were shouted, “at least!”

  “But it’s an exclusive, Mr Martyn. Think of the increased circulation.”

  “The only increased circulation around here will be mine – at the thought of paying five – hundred – bloody – quid!” And then the editor’s voice sank low, taking on almost a pleading tone. “Keane, Keane, Keane. Where the hell’ve you been all your life? It’s only an exclusive until some rag comes along and offers him a few quid more. And anyway, it’s dull, Keane, dull, dull, dull. Isn’t there any sex angle you can put into this? What readers want is something to brighten up their drab lives, take them out of their pedestrian rut. You know, ‘Geriatric sex addict runs off with schoolgirl bank robber.’ That sort of thing. Bring back a story like that, Keane, and promotion will be rapid and substantial. So this old guy’s leg’s been cured. So what? End of story. He’s not going to have a miracle happen to him every week, is he? Has anybody else had a miracle happen to them?”

  “Well, no, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. But other people have now seen the vision and there’s a stream that’s appeared beside the Mass Rock. The locals are saying that it’s holy water.”

  “Well, that might run, Keane, but this story bloody won’t. Next week it’ll be as dead as a dodo. So you can tell your man that we’re not writing his story and he can forget about the five hundred – agreement or no agreement, signature or not. You get yourself back here, pronto. There are two art exhibitions and a council meeting coming up and I’ve got nobody to cover them.” There was a slurping sound from Harry Martyn as he gulped another draught of tea the colour of rust. “And don’t come in here waving a big bunch of expenses, son, because you won’t bloody get them.”

  “But Mr Martyn, I can’t come back! This is a big story, an exclusive. All the newspapers in Ireland will be onto this now. And then the English ones, not to mention tv and radio. I’ve got to stay here and follow it up.”

  Fergus Keane heard a long and painful sigh.

  “Keane, believe me, I’ve had plenty years of experience of this kind of thing. Miracle stories are ten-a-penny in Ireland. Too many tossers wandering around with their heads full of drink and bloody leprechauns. This is a bummer, Keane. In a few days you’ll probably find out it was a hoax.”

  “Oh no, Mr Martyn, it’s genuine. I know it is. In fact, I would stake my reputation on it.”

  “Keane, you little prat, you don’t have a bloody reputation! Now would you get yourself back up here, in double quick time.”

  Fergus stood for a momen
t, heart beating fast, watching his reflection in the glass of the telephone box as he composed a determined countenance, more for the impressive reflection of his face in the glass than for any effect it might have on his voice. Then he said, slowly and very evenly,

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr Martyn. It’s my duty to stay here and uncover the truth. And you’ll see, I’ll prove to you that I’m right.”

  And then to his own amazement Fergus gently replaced the receiver and stood for a few moments trembling with excitement at his own audacity and the prospect of success that lay before him. Just before he stepped out of the telephone box, he squared his shoulders and allowed a casual grin to slant one side of his mouth. That too looked good in the reflection, he felt good, his instincts were good, and he had now mastered every aspect of this job. He didn’t need any editor, and certainly not Harry Martyn, to tell him when he was onto a big story. He would send in the best damned pieces that had ever been printed in the Northern Reporter, or any other paper, for that matter. And when The Times and The Daily Telegraph were chasing him – The Washington Post flitted through his mind but he thought it was a little premature for that – when the big London dailies were offering him a fortune to go and work for them, he would tell Harry Martyn where to stick his job. But if he didn’t pay the miracle man his five hundred, there would be no exclusive, no fame, no fortune. So, he would just have to take it out of his own meagre savings. It would be an investment in his talent. And after the story went nation-wide and every paper was clamouring to get the inside track, Harry Martyn would be rushing to pay him back his five hundred, and a nice fat bonus on top of it as well.

  With a piece of meat in one hand and a rolling pin in the other, the Winter Cook went searching behind the furniture and boxes in the kitchen of the Glens Hotel for the cat, which had stolen a piece of lemon sole from a plate and her only turned her back for a second, the filthy brute. As she went, she hummed a little tune, an action which was entirely foreign to Mrs Megarrity’s cantankerous nature.

  “Here, puss puss puss,” she said, holding out the meat and hefting the rolling pin. “Come and get it!” She bent low and peered under a table. No sign of it there. Tiptoeing across the room, she gently opened a cupboard door with her toe, the meat waving before her, the rolling pin held aloft. Then she searched among the packets, tins and jars stored there, but saw no sign of the fat, sleek animal that seemed to be able to disappear like a wisp of smoke after each of its many crimes. And still the Winter Cook kept up her tuneless humming as she pulled out boxes and looked inside, peered behind piles of nested pots and even looked in the oven in case the cat, in desperation, had decided that a slow baking was better than a cracked skull.

  Having failed to find any trace of the animal, the Winter Cook laid the piece of meat on the table and was turning to put the rolling pin back into the drawer when she heard behind her the little thump of four paws landing on something. She glanced round, the wooden implement still clutched in her plump hand. Standing on the table, the big tom cat was lowering his head towards the piece of rump steak. A gleam of triumph illuminated Mrs Megarrity’s eyes as she silently turned, at the same time raising the rolling pin to shoulder height. She took one step across the kitchen floor. The cat’s mouth was round the meat. The cat bit into the red flesh. Mrs Megarrity’s final step was more of a leap, with the rolling pin slicing through the air towards the animal’s head. At the last possible moment, the cat leapt clean off the table onto the sink and from there out of the open window. The rolling pin thudded into the slice of meat, Mrs Megarrity shouted, “Jasus tonight!” and then Dermot McAllister walked into the kitchen.

  “Mrs Megarrity! What the hell are you doing?” he said, a puzzled smile on his face. Again the Winter Cook thumped the rolling pin on the rump steak.

  “I declare to God, Mr McAllister,” she said, “this meat’s tougher than old boots. When I get that butcher, I’ll give him rump steak, so I will. This has been in his freezer that long it’s near fossilised.”

  “Well, never mind that for a minute. I’ve got something important to tell you.” He gave a broad grin. “I just had bookings for three single rooms for tonight. Can you do three extra dinners for this evening? I think they’re newspaper reporters from the South. The first of many, I hope, coming to report on the miracle story.” He rubbed his hands together. “This is just the start of it, Mrs Megarrity. Just the start. Tell me, how’s the Miracle Man keeping?”

  “Oh, the Miracle Man’s just fine,” she retorted, “but I’m not a miracle bloody woman. How am I expected to get meals ready for people when I don’t know they’re coming? Would you tell me that?”

  “But – I just told you, Mrs Megarrity.”

  “That’s all very well, Mr McAllister, but I can’t be going out now to buy a whole rake of stuff to put on a menu, and if I was to keep it in case somebody did turn up and then had to throw it out, you’d be onto me about the cost of the food.”

  “Ah, Mrs Megarrity, I’m sure you’ll rustle up something. You always do. I’m sure these reporters are not that fussy.”

  “And another thing,” she said. “If I’m to be doing all this extra work, I don’t think a rise in wages would go amiss.”

  “Mrs Megarrity,” Dermot said, approaching as if he was about to put his arm around her. The temptation was not difficult for Dermot to resist. “Believe me, I would like nothing better than to give you a wage rise. I really would. But until business gets better – and maybe this is the start of it – there isn’t much I can do without bankrupting the place.”

  The Winter Cook smiled sweetly at him.

  “Ah now, I’m sure there is, Mr McAllister, I’m sure there is. In fact,” she turned the rolling pin in her fat hands, “unless you want Mrs McAllister to find out about the shenanigans upstairs in the bedroom with the piano teacher, I would think there’s quite a lot you could do.”

  The look on Dermot’s face was a mixture of pain and puzzlement.

  “The – piano teacher?” he said, adding under his breath, “I’ll kill the little bugger.”

  She held up her hands in protestation of innocence.

  “Not that I would sit in judgement on any man, Mr McAllister. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged’, that’s always been my motto. But I’m not so sure your good wife would see it that way. I’d say another – fifteen pound a week would save any problems in that department.”

  With tight lips and narrowed eyes, Dermot regarded the Winter Cook for what seemed like a long time.

  “Five,” he said.

  The Winter Cook gave this some thought.

  “Ten.”

  “Seven fifty, dammit, and that’s my final offer.”

  “Done,” said the Winter Cook, with only a modest smile.

  “Of course, you know what this is, Mrs Megarrity. This is blackmail.”

  “Oh, I know, Mr McAllister, I know fine. And thank God for it.”

  chapter ten

  Mr Andrew Rowan, senior partner in the firm of Rowan, Rowan and Pettigrew was a small, dapper man in his mid sixties who liked to dress well, dine on the best and in general enjoy the good things in life, whether provided by his own efforts or unwittingly by those of his clients. His thriving solicitor’s practice in Belfast had long ensured that he could maintain an expensive lifestyle, and since his son had joined him as a partner, he felt that the family fortunes were now doubly secure. On recently inserting the second Rowan into the name of the practice, he had reflected on why he had never removed that of Pettigrew all those years ago, but Rowan and Pettigrew had a ring to it, and anyway it was always better to give the impression that a practice was not simply a one-man band. It had only been a few years after he had set up the practice with Pettigrew that the unfortunate incident of the widow’s legacy had occurred. Poor Pettigrew. For a solicitor, he had been so naive, and Rowan had been happy to benefit from the money while his partner took the blame. Naturally, Rowan had made great efforts to cover things up for his frien
d and partner, and had certainly succeeded in preventing charges from being brought, but some kind of justice had to be seen to be done, and so young Pettigrew had had to leave and sell his half of the business to Rowan. At a price which was very advantageous to Rowan, of course. On reflection, Rowan realised that it had been a blessing in more ways than one, as it showed that Pettigrew would never have made either a good solicitor or a long-term partner. He was too naïf – that was Mr Rowan’s euphemism for “honest” – and would certainly have brought misfortune upon the firm sooner or later. And Pettigrew’s departure had certainly been the start of Rowan’s success, the other major part of which had been the handling of legal affairs for the Garrison family. When old man Garrison had died, who better to advise on both legal and investment affairs for his two daughters than Mr Rowan. And advise them he did, on investments in land, in property, in stocks and shares and, as he had determined at the outset, he kept on advising them about their money until it was all gone.

  In mid morning the wind had changed from the west to due south and now sent a warming breeze across the strand at Inisbreen, where Mr Rowan and the two Misses Garrison were taking a leisurely walk back to the Glens Hotel for lunch. The solicitor walked with a sister on either side of him, stopping here and there to ask about various points of interest – the strangely-shaped hill at the top of the glen, the derelict house on the strand – and Margaret regaled him with little anecdotes of times past and how nothing was what it had been in their young days.

  Cissy took little part in the conversation, pre-occupied as she was – and as she had been for the last few days – with thoughts of John McGhee. She knew that everyone called him Limpy, but she could never think of him like that. And now, apparently, she would have no need to do so, as they were saying that he’d had a miraculous cure to his leg. It had only been after their recent brief conversation that she had realised the possibility of there still being a spark of interest on her part, a spark – indeed it was then a flame – that she had assumed extinguished many years ago by her father and Margaret. By turns she thought a relationship so long over was incapable of revival, then in the next breath decided that true love never dies, except perhaps beneath the dragon breath of Margaret. She was reluctantly being drawn towards the conclusion that it would have been better if John had not spoken to her that day at the strand.