The Miracle Man
Page 22
“I told her I was only supplying what people wanted. This is a business, not a charity, I said. I don’t go round her house telling her what she should have in her cupboards.”
“Damned right, Frank. That’s what comes of working with them priests. They think they own ye. Ye wouldn’t be wanting a wee hand there, Peggy May?” He gave his little chirruping laugh. “You can decide the spot.”
“Oh, ye’d only have to wash yer hands afterwards, Mr Cully. This is dirty work, so it is.”
Pig Cully squeaked.
“That’s just what I want, Peggy May, a bit of dirty work.”
“Give over, Cully,” Frank Kilbride told him good-humouredly.
The bell tinkled, the door opened and closed and there stood Limpy in what passed for his Sunday best – an old, pinstriped brown suit, a white shirt gone grey around the neck and a silver and maroon brocade tie stiff with age. His damp hair was slapped flat to his head. On his feet he wore a pair of heavy black shoes that in harder times he had soled with the tread from a car tyre. The slabs of rubber having regained their curvatures, when Limpy walked he seemed to rock forwards with a nodding motion. In the damp weather he left tyre tracks on the pavement.
“God bless all here,” he said, determined to consolidate his role as a symbol of living Christianity. Frank Kilbride looked round, swayed and almost fell from the ladder.
“Jasus!” Pig Cully said when he glanced from beneath his cap, and Peggy May popped her head above the counter and stared.
“Is that you, Mister McGhee?” she said.
“None other, Peggy May,” he said. “None other.” He rocked towards the counter, looking from one side to the other as though acknowledging a cheering crowd. “Mister Kilbride,” he said grandly, “give me a bottle of yer best whiskey, if ye would. Black Bush would fit the bill, I daresay.”
Pig Cully adjusted his cap upwards, the better to see the phenomenon that stood before him. “Black Bush, is it? Ye given up drinking the parafeen, McGhee?”
“Not at all, Mister Cully, not at all. I’m celebrating a windfall, as ye might say. And any of them that counts themselves friends of mine would be more than welcome to participate in the said bottle, so they would. In other words, the drinks is on me.”
Pig Cully snapped his cap peak down over his eyes again and said,
“The drink’s is on you? Ye must be wanting the bugger on tick.”
“No credit here, McGhee. You know the rules,” Frank Kilbride announced, still up the ladder, but poised to descend.
“And who asked for credit?” Limpy said and drew a huge roll of notes from his pocket, pulled off a twenty and slapped it on the counter. “Take it out of that!”
Frank Kilbride came down the ladder at speed.
“Jee-sus, McGhee.” Pig Cully squeaked. “Ye’ve never robbed a bank, have ye? Where in the hell did ye get all that? There must be – ”
“Never you mind, Cully, never you mind,” Limpy said and then with a broad grin, “If yez must know, I sold my life story to a magazine. `Exclusive’ the man said. Wanted to give me a cheque, but I says no bloody fear. It’s cash or nothin’.”
Frank Kilbride was examining the note against the light. Peggy May said,
“Is it all right, Mr McBride?” and he nodded in surprise and went off to fetch the whiskey.
“He just came up and offered ye a bunch of money, just like that?” asked Pig Cully.
“Oh, he wanted to offer me less, but says I, `Listen here, boy, this isn’t just any old story. This here’s of – national importance.’” He nodded, pleased with the phrase. “‘You don’t get a miraculous cure every day of the week.’ So he had to up the ante.”
“Bloody hell,” was all Pig Cully could reply.
“Ye got that whole bunch of money for tellin’ your life story, Mister McGhee?” Peggy May asked.
“Indeed I did, Peggy May. That and a lot more besides.”
“Jeez-o! I wonder how much I would get for telling my life story.”
“A lot more,” Pig Cully quickly volunteered, “if ye’d some juicy bits in it. That’s where I’d come in.”
Frank Kilbride put the bottle of whiskey on the counter. He was grasping the twenty-pound note like the hand of an old friend.
“Was there anything else while you were here, Mr McGhee?”
“Oh, Mister McGhee now, is it?” Pig Cully said.
“Well, let’s see, you could throw in a handful of them cigars and I suppose I’d better take a half dozen of stout as well.”
“Shouldn’t ye be setting a more sober example to the citizenry,” Pig Cully enquired, “you being a friend of the Virgin Mary and all?”
The storekeeper said sharply,
“The man’s entitled to a drink now and again. What else can I do for you, Mr McGhee? How about a few of these cream cakes here – lovely with a cup of tea – and that would just about round off the twenty nicely.”
“You’ll get rid of them buns yet, Kilbride” Pig Cully told him. “They must’ve been there this week or more. Sure the flies has half of them ate. You get the flies for free, McGhee.”
“I’ll have you know this is a hygienic establishment,” Frank Kilbride was saying as Peggy May swiped at a gorging bluebottle and sank the back of her hand into the yellow cream.
“Ah, to hell with poverty,” Limpy said, giving a magnanimous wave of his hand. “Throw in the buns as well.”
From round the corner of the shore road a small procession appeared, Father Burke striding out at its head and all of those behind him carrying hastily-made placards proclaiming, “Stop the sacrilege”, “No Profit From God”, and “God – Yes, Mammon – No!” Mrs McKay and her sister that was married to the water bailiff followed directly behind the priest, then two nuns on holiday from Belfast, three old men who had been press-ganged on the road, two women from the Legion of Mary and six or seven children who were not paying attention and kept bumping into the people in front of them. By way of conducting those behind him, Father Burke began waving his arms and then in a wavering voice he launched into “Faith of Our Fathers” about an octave below the range of those who followed him. They joined in as best they could. In this manner they marched towards the Inisbreen Stores, in front of which they made a ragged halt and turned to face it, still singing. With an increasingly grave look on his face, Father Burke examined the contents of both windows and then as he walked to the door he thrust his hand into the air, fingers extended upwards, in order to encourage the choir to greater efforts. Without his lead their voices subsided and they finished at the end of the next verse. This revealed the lone voice of a small boy singing a different tune which was quickly silenced by a cuff on the ear from a nun who felt that, in the absence of Father Burke, she had to exert some authority, as she was for the moment Christ’s senior representative on this particular patch of earth.
Peggy May, Pig Cully, Limpy and Frank Kilbride behind the counter had been staring through the front window at the gathering outside. When Father Burke entered, his black soutane swirling round his ankles, Pig Cully sat on the bench and seemed to retreat under his cap, Limpy smiled and edged in front of the whiskey and stout bottles, while Peggy May scuttled behind the counter again. Frank Kilbride stood with his arms folded and waited.
“Mister Kilbride.” The priest had stopped in the middle of the store.
“Father Burke.”
“Mister Kilbride, I wish to protest in the strongest possible terms about that – sacrilege – in your windows. I demand that you get rid of them forthwith.”
“I’d be more than happy if I could, Father. If you’re offering to buy them all, I could do you a good price.”
“Of course I’m not offering to buy them! I want them removed from your window immediately! They’re an affront to the Catholics of this parish.”
Peggy May was confused.
“I think the Jesus one’s got a lovely wee face. I’m buying one for our Jennifer.”
Kilbride said,
Father Burke was a little taken aback at a Protestant quoting Lourdes as a precedent.
“Lourdes? What’s Lourdes got to do with anything? This is Ireland, and the Church has to sanction the sale of any religious objects.”
“Are you saying you’re going to tell me what I can sell in my own shop? I think not, Father.”
The subject of the miracle kept smiling but shifted uneasily, due to the proximity of the whiskey and stout. Under his cap, Pig Cully appeared to be asleep.
Outside, the band of protesters had given up any pretence of singing and were moving around restlessly, the supervising nun scanning the group of children for signs of the bad behaviour that she knew must be there somewhere, the public display of which would bring instant opprobrium and eventual ruination on the whole Catholic Church.
“Mister Kilbride, you can’t just go putting religious articles in a shop window. It’s not something I’d normally mention, of course, but after all – you’re not even of our religious persuasion.”
The storekeeper gave a tight little smile.
“Ah, you have a monopoly on God then, do you, Father?” The priest looked a little flustered. Trust a Protestant to use a devious and specious argument like that. In other circumstances, he might well have made a good Jesuit.
“Of course not. But you Presbyterians don’t believe in miracles – or worship the Virgin Mary. She’s – ours.”
In an attempt at mediation, Limpy McGhee said,
“Well now, Father, maybe the Virgin Mary’s not that bothered. I mean, I’m not even sure if I’m a Catholic, and she still did a miracle on me, so she did.”
The priest’s face suddenly went pale and his cheeks sagged against the bones beneath. For a few moments he stared at Limpy.
“You’re not – what?”
“Not a Catholic, Father. Well, not that I know of for sure.” Frank Kilbride smiled and Pig Cully squinted out from beneath his cap.
“But – how can you not know if you’re a Catholic or not? Were you baptised?” the priest asked, trying to keep an even tenor in his voice.
“I couldn’t rightly say, Father. My mother died when I was a nipper and when I was ten my father ran off with a gypo woman that sold pegs round the doors. I’ll need to ask Lizzie. She knows all them things.”
“But – I mean, how can you not be a Catholic? You’re supposed to have had a miracle happen to you, for goodness sake.”
“Well, all I can say is, she never asked me what I was. It was just bang! and she’d done the job. Anyway, Father, I believe in miracles now. I’d say that probably makes it all right, wouldn’t you?”
Father Burke looked a little dazed. Good God! Why had nobody told him the man might not be a Catholic? And what was the Bishop going to say when he found out about this? He would be the laughing-stock of the diocese, he would be drummed out of the priesthood. The young priest drew himself up, turned to Frank Kilbride and with as much composure as he could muster said,
“Mr Kilbride, I can assure you that I am going to take this matter further. Good day to you.” Then he turned and went quickly out of the store.
From underneath his cap came Pig Cully’s squeaking laugh.
“Hey, McGhee! Does that mean you’ll get your limp back?”
Limpy’s hand closed round the neck of the whiskey bottle.
“Devil the bit, Cully. When the Virgin Mary does a miracle, it stays done,” he said, but just to be on the safe side he made the sign of the cross, albeit backwards and with his left hand.
When Limpy left the Inisbreen Stores, the bottle of Black Bush sticking out of his jacket pocket and carrying the stout and the cream buns in a white paper bag, he headed down the street for the bridge and beyond it the Glens Hotel. Unfortunately he would have to tell Lizzie about the five thousand from the newspaper – “Five – thousand – pound”, he said very slowly, while shaking his head in disbelief – because she was bound to find out sooner or later. Still, it was only fair, after all she’d done for him over the years. For sure, she’d be looking for her cut, but he’d try and beat her right down, tell her he had a lot of bills to pay, was as near as dammit getting thrown in jail over the head of it, all the usual old stuff that worked a treat every time. And they’d have a good drink of Black Bush to celebrate. Things were looking just champion now – except for Cissy. One day she was all on for a meeting and when he says yes please, she doesn’t show. It wasn’t even as if the letter got lost in the post. He paused on the bridge and looked down at the few sailing boats that bobbed at anchor near the banks of the river. Still, maybe it wasn’t surprising, having second thoughts after forty years. A big step for any woman to take. He’d maybe leave it a few days and then send her another letter. See if she’d come round to his way of thinking. She always had been a shy wee thing.
Limpy went up the path at the side of the hotel and along the lane to the back door leading directly into the kitchen. Without knocking, he opened the door and went in. Mrs Megarrity, who had been sitting by the stove having a nap, jumped to her feet and was about to make some pretence at working until she saw who it was.
“Jasus tonight! It’s you! Would ye knock that friggin’ door before ye come in. I thought it was McAllister, an him an me at daggers dawn.”
“Ah, I’m sorry about that, Lizzie, but I was rushing in with some good news.” Limpy placed the bag of stout and buns on the table and then slowly withdrew the bottle of whiskey and held it up for his sister’s approval before setting it too on the table. Mrs Megaritty almost purred at him,
“Good news, is it? Well, never mind yer good news. I’ve got some for you. D’you remember that five hunnerd pound you so charitably gave to the Church?”
“Oh – yes – that five hunnerd. Now Lizzie, I don’t like to be talking about that. It’s not right for a man to blow his own trumpet.”
“Well, allow me, boy, because there’s going to be dynamite up yours in a minute, you lowdown, connivin’, lyin’ little get! Church my arse! Ye gave that money – five hunnerd pound, for the love of Jasus! – to that wee runt Garrison! An’ me giving ye a fiver to treat yerself to a drink on the strength of it. Do ye deny it? Do ye?”
Limpy, who had been making a slow retreat towards the door under this heavy fire, adopted the submissive posture and wheedling tone that had been his salvation so many times before.
“Well – ye see – Lizzie, I didn’t want to embarrass the woman by letting everybody know her business. She didn’t ask me for the money. I heard she was in a bad way financially and I sent it to her – because she was – an old friend.”
“She was in a bad way financially?” His sister bellowed. “An’ what the hell way d’ye think I’ve been in for this last twenty years, running around here with the backside out my knickers? God knows, I never asked for much, but to have to come down that road every morning looking like I’ve been robbing scarecrows – ”
But Limpy was not listening to his sister’s sartorial history. A few facts had at last come together and from these he had made a deduction. “Ye nosey old bitch! Ye opened my letter, didn’t ye? Is there nothing sacred around here?” He flung an arm up in a dramatic gesture. “Has a man not got the right to privacy, prosperity, to the pursuit of happiness and – ”
The Winter Cook fairly flew at the diminutive orator and caught him firmly by one ear which she yanked upwards.
“The pursuit of five hundred pound is all you’re going to be doing, John McGhee. C’m’ere!” She led him by the ear to a chair at the table, then shoved him into it. “You,” she said, giving his ear one last tug before releasing it, “are going to write a letter.”
“Ah!” The Miracle Man held a cupped hand over his throbbing ear. “Ye’re a
hard and vicious woman, Lizzie Megarrity, so y’are.”
“Not half enough for your kind,” she said from the far side of the room where she was taking paper and a pen from a drawer. “Now, ye’re going to write a little note to Cissy Garrison – the one that’s got our money, remember? – and tell her to meet you in one of the rooms at – “ she glanced at the clock, “ – four this afternoon, and to bring the five hunnerd with her. Number twenty-six is empty. That’ll do just fine. C’mon, get writing. And ye’d better lay it on thick, about how desperate ye are for the cash and if she doesn’t hand it over, ye’ll end up in the jail. I’m sure ye know the kind of thing.”
“But Lizzie, I don’t need to get the money back because I’ve – ”
“Ye’ll just do as ye’re told, or ye’ll have two legs needing miracles doing on them! Here.” She shoved the pen into his hand then tapped the top of the notepaper. “‘My Most Dearest Cissy’. Jasus save us.”
Oh well, if she was too busy chasing five hundred pounds to be interested in five thousand, that was her look-out. When she eventually did find out about it and wanted a share, she could whistle for it.
When Limpy had written the letter and gone – without his bottle of Black Bush – because “ye need to keep a clear head for this work, John McGhee” – the Winter Cook sat down at the table, poured another whiskey and set about writing one more letter. This one said, “Dear Mr Pointerly, Now’s the time. I’ve waited for you long enough. Meet me in Room 26 at a quarter to four. There’s a big bed and plenty of space. Get yourself ready. When I walk in that room, I want to see you as nature intended. Yours for ever, John McGhee. PS. No holds bard.”
“Well now,” she said with a smile, “we’ll see who gets five hunnerd pound and what the wee gold-digger thinks of her true love after this.” She poured herself a generous measure of whiskey and raised the glass. “Ye crossed the wrong woman this time, Cissy Garrison,” she said aloud, then sat back contentedly in her chair and savoured the free whiskey.