Julia in Ireland

by Ann Bridge

  “Oh, I am glad. It will help Gerald, and save him getting so tired. How nice this is, Terence.”

  Chapter 12

  The three thousand pounds in used fivers, to the bank manager’s great amusement, found their way back into Richard Fitzgerald’s account, and eventually were returned to the Bank of Ireland; in exchange he was given £25 notes, which the head of the Mother House in Belgium had said she would prefer to any other denomination—to Gerald’s great relief Richard volunteered to take the money over to Belgium. For some reason which, he told Julia, he didn’t pretend to understand, this large donation had to get to the nuns at Roskeen by this roundabout method.

  “What about the roof on White Place? Surely they ought to be getting on with that?” Julia asked.

  “They are, darling—they’ve got a new, decent architect, and the roof is being seen to already; as soon as that is done, and the place is water-tight, they’ll start on the interior alterations. In fact, with this extra money they’ll be able to do more than they’d ever expected, just with what they got from selling the old convent at Roskeen. So Moran’s wickedness in taking that bribe has turned out all for the best!”

  “What an extraordinary business it all is!” Julia said. “I wonder what O’Rahilly will do now?”

  “Why should he do anything? I’m not sure that I am with you” Gerald said, looking puzzled.

  “Well, he’ll want to put up his hotel and have his yacht-marina somewhere, if he can get the money, won’t he?”

  “Oh-ah! Well, it’s all sure he won’t be able to put them up anywhere near Lettersall, and ruin that lovely bit of coast, now that it belongs to Terry” Gerald observed, with great satisfaction. “I’m not terribly concerned about Master O’Rahilly and his troubles. Are you?”

  “Only because of Sally.”

  “Who’s Sally?”

  “Sally Martin, at Achill. She and O’Rahilly are rather friends, and now that Moran’s out of the picture, I think they might become more than friends.”

  “She’d do better to keep clear of him, I’d say.”

  “Oh, why? Is there really anything definite wrong with him, that you know of for a fact?”

  “Only his being mixed up with Moran, and never taking a job and doing an honest day’s work—just writing these lefty poems” Gerald said, a little taken aback by the firmness of her questions.

  “Oh, well that sounds to me uncomfortably like the sort of thing the General says about him! If there was anything real against him, you’d be sure to know, wouldn’t you?”

  “I expect I should” Gerald said. He too was uncomfortable at his attitude being compared to that of General O’Hara. “It’s probably just prejudice. I admit to being prejudiced in favour of young men who do a regular job of work—like Terry. He need never do another hand’s turn, but he’s determined to go on working like a Trojan at being a lawyer.”

  “Yes, he’s a nice creature—and intelligent. I do like him so much.”

  “Do you?” he asked earnestly.

  “Yes, indeed I do.”

  “I’m glad, because he and I are going to be partners—so we shall be seeing a lot of him, I expect.”

  Julia just managed to refrain from a reply that would have revealed that she already knew this, which would not have been tactful—feeling rather guilty at even this tiny deception of her dear Gerald, she merely said how nice that would be, and rather hastily expressed the hope that the American purchaser of Ponticum Cottage was someone nice.

  “Martin? I know nothing whatever about him, except that he’s given a very good price, and paid, on the nail—and that he’s keen on fishing.”

  Julia pricked up her ears at the name Martin, but again refrained from questions. And when she got back from Martinstown, where she and Gerald had met for lunch, she found a letter from Edina Reeder which so much disconcerted her that for the time being it put everything else out of her head.

  Edina wrote that Father Kennedy, the local priest who served the Macdonalds’ Chapel, had said that he could not celebrate the marriage of a non-Catholic to a Catholic without a dispensation; also that the Catholic bridegroom’s parish priest must send him, Father Kennedy, a written delegation of authority to arrange the marriage. Julia’s heart quailed at the thought of wrestling with Father Murphy over all this; and, though Edina had thoughtfully sent Fr. Kennedy’s address, she did not say who was to apply for the dispensation, nor from whom it could be obtained. In her distress and concern she decided to go and consult Father O’Donnell at Lettersall—he would be more likely to know and, if he didn’t know, would be more energetic about finding out, she felt sure. She telephoned for an appointment—the priest said he could see her at 3:30 the following afternoon, and she drove over in Helen O’Hara’s little car.

  She was slightly fussed to see another car standing in the drive outside the presbytery—could the Father have an unexpected visitor? But he heard her and came out before she had time to ring the bell.

  “You did say today, didn’t you?” Julia asked rather nervously, with a glance at the other car.

  “Yes, indeed. What do you think of my new means of locomotion?” Father O’Donnell said, patting the new Ford affectionately as he passed it.

  “Oh, is it yours? How good!” Julia responded warmly.

  “Yes. Lady Mary left me £1,000 ‘for the good of my Church,’ by which I judged it reasonable to assume that she meant for the benefit of my parish and parishioners—and the extra amount of time and strength I shall have for them and their needs as a result of driving rather than bicycling I felt warranted the purchase of a car” the Father said, smiling finely, as he led her into his study. “Come and sit down” he went on, as before clearing a chair for her. “Now how do you think I can help you?”

  “Father, I’m going to marry Gerald O’Brien” Julia began.

  “So I heard. I congratulate you both most warmly.”

  “And I’ve promised Gerald that I would become a Catholic” Julia went on.

  “Then I congratulate you both more warmly still. This is splendid news” the priest said.

  “But we wanted to get married rather quickly” Julia pursued “And it seems that in Scotland”—she pulled out Edina’s letter—“if a Catholic wants to marry a non-Catholic, they must get a dispensation.” She paused again; she was unwont-edly hesitant about this enquiry.

  “That rule doesn’t only apply ‘in Scotland’—the need for a dispensation for a mixed marriage is absolute, everywhere” Father O’Donnell said, but quite kindly.

  “But who gives the dispensation?”

  “The Bishop of the diocese in which the bridegroom lives.”

  “Even if he’s going to get married somewhere else?”

  “Yes. And his own parish priest must make the application to his Bishop for it. That is the first step. If the dispensation is granted, the Scottish parish priest must also get what is called an exequatur from the Bishop of his diocese, enabling him to celebrate the marriage. But the essential thing is that the bridegroom’s (if, as in this case, he is the Catholic partner) local parish priest must delegate authority to arrange the marriage to the priest of the parish where it will take place.”

  Julia sighed. “It all seems very complicated.”

  “Why do you want to be married in Scotland?” the priest asked.

  “It was Gerald’s idea. He knows that Glentoran has always been my second home, and he thought all my relations there would be hurt if we got married here, as I had suggested.”

  “I think he is right. It was a very considerate and charitable thought. Well, the first thing is for Mr. O’Brien to ask Father Murphy to apply to Bishop Browne for a dispensation.”

  But Julia had been thinking rather fast.

  “Father, how long would it take for me to be instructed and received into the Church? It seems to me, as I want to become a Catholic anyhow, that it would all be very much simpler if I were to be received first. Then there need be no worry about a dispensat
ion, at least.”

  Father O’Donnell looked at her thoughtfully.

  “Do you know anything about the Catholic faith?” he asked after a moment.

  “Not a great deal—of the theology part, I mean. I know what goes on, because I’ve lived a lot in Portugal, in a very devout family—I was governess to the daughter.”

  “What do you mean by very devout?” Father O’Donnell asked, smiling.

  “Oh, Mass every day in their own Chapel—my pupil and I always went.”

  “By your own choice?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t have been very courteous not to, and anyhow I liked going—it’s a nice beginning to the day” Julia said.

  “How right you are! Have you been baptised?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, into the C. of E., as a baby.”

  “Are you sure? People always assume they have been baptised, when obviously they cannot know it of their own knowledge.”

  “Well, I’ve got a godmother still living, and compos mentis; she would remember. She said it was in that Church in The Boltons, so it should be in the parish register there,” Julia said. “How long does instruction take?”

  “Ten sessions is usually regarded as the minimum; for an educated adult it is usually longer.”

  “Why?” She was surprised.

  “They know more, and therefore require fuller information.”

  “Could you instruct me?”

  “If that was your and your fiancé’s wish. My own view is that it is generally more helpful if a person is instructed by a priest in their own country; then accidental elements of race and outlook and tradition are less likely to enter and interfere. Becoming a Catholic is a very big step, Mrs. Jamieson,” he said, with great kindness in his voice, “and a very precious thing.”

  Julia’s mind flashed back to those moments after Timmie’s funeral Mass, and the strange sense she had had of a door opening before her, and the vista beyond through which she would presently walk.

  “Yes, I know, Father; at least I’m beginning to get some idea” she said. Then—“Could you receive me?” she asked.

  “With the Bishop’s permission, Yes.” He saw a doubtful look come into her face, and added, “That need not involve more delay—there is a formula for the request: ‘May I receive X, when she has completed her instruction?’ which would avoid that.”

  “Thank you, Father. May I talk to Gerald about it? I feel it would be rather a corvée for you, anyhow.”

  “Don’t even think of that. But do discuss it with Mr. O’Brien. And then you or he will let me know what you decide.” He made as if to rise. “Just one minute, Father, if you can spare it” Julia said. She must find out about the “Martin” who had taken Ponticum Cottage. He relapsed into his chair again.

  “Yes—what now?”

  “Have you met the American who has bought Lady Browne’s house?”

  “Yes, I have. Why? Do you know him?”

  “No, but I heard that his name was Martin, and I wondered if by any chance he was a relation of the Mrs. Martin who lives in Achill.”

  Father O’Donnell suddenly looked very alert.

  “Do you know her?” he asked, briskly.

  “Yes—she and I have made friends.”

  “Oh, excellent! I wanted to contact someone who knew her.”

  “Then is he the husband?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Oh, goodness!” Julia said. “Poor Sally.”

  “Why do you say that?” the priest asked.

  “She was so hoping he wouldn’t come over here.”

  “Do you know that for a fact, or are you speaking from a general impression?”

  “She said it in so many words, when she was telling me about the separation, and her troubles with him. I can remember her very words—when I asked if he ever came over to Ireland, she said ‘Oh mercy, I hope Paddy doesn’t ever take that idea into his head.’ ”

  “Poor soul.” He got up and rang the bell, saying “Excuse me a moment.” When his housekeeper came Julia heard him instructing her to show his next visitor into the dining-room; then he came back and sat down again.

  “This will take a little time” he said. “I feel sure you had better know it, though you will realise that except where Mrs. Martin is concerned, it is confidential. In her case you must use your discretion.”

  “Of course” Julia said. She was rather puzzled as to what Father O’Donnell could tell her about Paddy Martin that she didn’t already know—what she was to hear was completely unexpected.

  “You know, of course, that he was a terrible drinker” the Father began. “In fact, a regular alcoholic—quite impossible to live with. And he took up with other women too. His wife must have suffered appallingly. And in the end she brought the children away, and came and settled down over here—would you say happily?”

  “Yes. I think she is rather lonely, but on the whole I think she has settled in happily.”

  “That is a mercy. Well, about five years ago Martin was taken by a friend to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.”

  “What is that?” Julia asked.

  “A society of people who have decided to give up drinking, and meet regularly to reinforce one another in their resolve—and to help others to come to the same decision. It was started in America, but now it has spread all over the world—more in Europe and the Anglo-Saxon parts of the New World, because alcohol is not such a problem among Asiatics and Africans.”

  “Really?” Julia asked in surprise.

  “Yes. This tendency to excess in alcohol is the real White Man’s Burden” Father O’Donnell said, with a wry smile. “However, to return to Alcoholics Anonymous. It is non-denominational, but definitely in the Christian mood. Martin joined it, and has not touched a drop of drink for five years.”

  “But how amazing!” Julia was very much startled.

  “Oh, I know of many such cases. And he has entirely given up the other women he used to consort with; for the last four-and-a-half years, at least, he has led a perfectly chaste and orderly life. And now, if she would agree, he would like to rejoin his wife and resume their marriage.”

  Julia was silent. She was thinking of Peter Moran—well, he was out of it now—and of Billy O’Rahilly. Neither of them was good enough for Sally; she would not have been happy with either. But was Paddy Martin any better? Certainly he must have character, to have given up both drinking and his women.

  “Now you see why I was anxious to get in touch with someone who knew Mrs. Martin” the Father said. “He didn’t want to rush things, and he wanted to do what is most fair by his wife—she might well be involved with someone else by this time. So when he heard of Lady Browne’s little cottage being for sale, he bought it at once, and has settled

  down here to find out how the land lies. Also he wanted someone here in Mayo to be able to vouch for the fact of his reformation, so when he had told me his story he insisted that I send a cable, reply paid, at his expense, to his priest in Philadelphia, asking him if he could verify Martin’s statements. Actually I only signed it—I think Martin telephoned it to a friend in Dublin and had it cabled from there.”

  “Much wiser” Julia commented.

  “Yes, an obvious precaution—especially when money is no object!” said Father O’Donnell, again with his wry smile. “And an honest and sensible action all round—otherwise I should only have had his word for it. I think he is an honest and sensible person.”

  “I’m very glad. Did the reply come yet?”

  “Yes, it came this morning. It confirms everything he told me, and speaks of Mr. Martin most warmly, as a good influence in the parish.”

  “Well, what shall you do now? Send her a copy of the priest’s cable?” Julia asked practically.

  “It requires a little thinking about” Father O’Donnell said. “One wants to handle it in the wisest way.”

  “I shouldn’t leave it too long” Julia said.

  “You mean there are other people about? Men, I m
ean?”

  “Oh Father, are there bees round a honey-pot? Mrs. Martin is a very attractive woman—of course people are after her. She’s had one lucky escape from a real bad hat—Gerald managed to get him out of the country—but it shouldn’t be left too long.”

  “I should like to consult your fiancé about this” the priest said slowly. “He is a very wise man.”

  At that moment a car drew up before the presbytery, and a tall, strikingly good-looking red-haired man sprang out, ran up the steps, and hammered on the door.

  “Here he is!” Father O’Donnell exclaimed, getting up.

  “I’d better be off” Julia said, also getting up.

  But before she had time to do more than take a few steps towards the door it opened, and the red-haired man appeared at it.

  “Hullo, Father—may I come in?” He checked on seeing Julia. “Oh, sorry—you’ve got a visitor. I only came to ask did that cable come yet? I’ll come back presently.”

  “No, come in and meet Mrs. Jamieson,” the Father said. “She is a friend of your wife’s.”

  At that the new-comer blushed, the ready blush of a red-haired person; he came forward and wrung Julia by the hand with an eagerness that she found rather touching.

  “Is that so? Did you see her recently? How is she?”

  “I saw her four days ago. She is very well.” She turned to Father O’Donnell, “I’ll be off now, Father.”

  Just then Mrs. Bassett appeared with a tray of tea-things, which she dumped on the floor while she fetched a small table from the passage.

  “Oh we don’t need tea yet, Mrs. Bassett” the priest said.

  “There’s a sponge-cake just out of the oven; ‘tis lovely. Ye’d best eat it right away” the housekeeper said, and bustled off to fetch this product. Father O’Donnell, laughing, gave in, and cleared another chair for his new guest, as before piling up books to serve as tables.

  “You’d better not miss Mrs. Bassett’s sponge-cake, Mrs. Jamieson. Hers really are something” he said. Julia, smiling, sat down; the Father turned to Paddy Martin. “Yes, the cable came, and says everything you could wish—I’ll show it to you. You needn’t hesitate to talk about it in front of Mrs. Jamieson, because, when I learned that she was a friend of your wife’s, I told her the whole story. I thought it best that she should know it.”