by Edward Toman
Joe peered round the partition of the snug, curious as to why the public bar had gone so quiet. At the sight of the black suit and the Roman collar he froze.
Canon Tom beckoned Eugene back with the merest gesture of his hand. ‘Give all these good people a drink on me,’ he said. ‘It’s a bitter night out there and I’m in an expansive mood.’
Here’s a turn-up for the books, Joe thought, raising his empty glass in silent appreciation. A priest throwing good money around! The same boy has just hit the jack-pot with Big Mac above by the look of things. Good luck to him, he told himself, many’s another would be like a fish out of water in a place like this, cracking jokes to break the silence, or coming on a bit strong to show who was boss, giving all and sundry a bollocking for keeping the boy out at this hour of the night. But the lad in the hundred-guinea suit with the motor purring at the door was above all that.
Eugene slipped a bottle, discreetly wrapped, across the counter. From his breast pocket Canon Tom produced a wallet of smoothest pigskin and took out a pair of Free State notes of the highest denomination. ‘Sure that won’t be necessary, Father,’ Eugene protested, but the Canon silenced him with a smile. ‘I’ll intrude no further into your evening, gentlemen,’ he said to the company at large. ‘Dia is Muire dhaoibh.’ He traced the sign of the cross peremptorily in the air, eased the Napoleon brandy into his coat, lifted his hat and took his leave.
It was the Tyrone man who surprised everyone by putting a name to the face. ‘That’s the man of the moment, if the rumours are to be believed,’ he said. ‘Canon Tom Cronin unless I’m very much mistaken.’
‘I see you move in very elevated circles, Your Highness,’ Joe said. ‘How did a gobshite like yourself come to be acquainted with a gentleman like that?’
‘Isn’t he a big man for the horses like myself. I do believe I’ve seen him in civvies at the livestock marts.’
‘He looks like a horsey man, all right,’ said Peadar. ‘He was civil enough anyway to buy us a drink.’
‘If it’s money you’re talking, the same boy is well connected,’ the Tyrone man added.
‘“I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,”’ Joe started crooning. ‘I do believe himself and Schnozzle were up at Maynooth at the same time,’ said the Tyrone man.
‘Comparing the two of them, I’d say Schnozzle drew the short straw,’ Peadar ventured.
‘Will you whisht a minute and let the man talk!’ Eugene ordered. The Tyrone man blushed at this unfamiliar invitation, pleased as Punch to be the centre of attention for once, with no one daring to interrupt him till they had gleaned all there was about the stranger.
And taking a sip of his stout, he told them the story of Canon Tom.
‘“I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,”’ his nanny would croon to him when he was an infant, and it was a view of things that he soon grew to take for granted. Tomas O’Cronain had experienced no hardship in his effortless growth from boyhood to man’s estate. Quite the reverse; born into one of the best families in the country, horsey people with brewing connections, from the moment of his birth his progress had seemed smooth and preordained. Not for him the barbarous Christian Brothers. His education had been entrusted from an early age to the Jesuits. The best boarding school had been his. Progress from there to Maynooth had been inevitable. His seven years there had been quietly distinguished, both in the lecture hall and on the handball alley.
‘That boy will go far,’ his tutors had foretold when he left them, ‘maybe even, if it’s God’s will, to the very top.’ And why not? As a young man Canon Tom seemed to have all Ireland at his feet. He was rotund and sleek and urbane, with a ready smile and a sincere word, at home in the presence of the rich and influential, yet unabashed when dealing with the lower orders. He suffered from no obvious impediment, no physical or moral flaw that would debar him from the highest office. His little failings were manly ones. He was a great one altogether for flirting with the ladies, but God knows, they would say, there was never any real harm in it, just a bit of innocent crack, didn’t they all love him for it? He had a weakness for the turf, only natural given his connections, but his daily perusal of the Racing Times was never at the expense of the breviary. So when the post at Adam and Eve’s fell vacant, it seemed only natural that the Cardinal should send for Canon Tom.
It came at an opportune time for him, for it had recently occurred to the Canon that he should get out there and earn some money. The Daimler sped over the hills, carrying him effortlessly north. He swept into the town and made for the hilltop where the limestone spires glistened in the dying rays of the sun. He crossed the Shambles, passing without a second glance the spluttering bus where Schnozzle, his ears still burning with humiliation, sat deep in thought. The car turned into the driveway of the cathedral and Canon Tom switched off the stereo and began to compose his thoughts. The years of training had been great gas, but since then he had drifted rather aimlessly, he had to admit to himself. The time had come to settle in somewhere if he were ever to make a go of it. What he needed now was a parish compatible with his lifestyle and temperament. Not just any parish either. He couldn’t imagine himself going through the motions in some country posting, big thick farmers and their big thick wives and big thick children. Nor did he see himself out in the West, knee-deep in half-naked starving children. Nor Belfast! At the very thought of it he shuddered and crossed himself. He would have to be somewhere near Dublin, but not too central, for the great unwashed had taken over the city’s heart and were breeding like rabbits in the slums. He would have to be somewhere civilized, somewhere where there would be refined conversation, interesting dinner parties, stimulating company; somewhere not too far from Fairyhouse. Maybe it was a tall order but, on the other hand, he told himself, it was no more than he deserved.
No other parish in the country was like Adam and Eve’s. It clung to the hills above Dublin, exclusive and rich. ‘Beverly Hills’ the gurriers down below in the smoking tenements would say with envy as they looked up at the detached residences and the hanging gardens of their betters, bathed in the pure air of the distant hill. This was no Saint Matthew’s, stewing in the fetid stench of despair under the censorious eye of a hirsute patron. The parishioners of Adam and Eve’s wore chains in plenty, but the chains they sported were of palest filigree gold, and the only alcohol that passed their lips was pure French wines, Irish malts or Italian aperitifs. When the annual collection for the Peter’s Pence came round, it went without saying that Adam and Eve’s was top of the table every year. And yet for all these trappings of material success, there was a malaise at the heart of the parish. They worried about everything. They told each other they were middle-class and proud of it, and yet they worried. They were educated and well read; as a consequence they spent a great deal of time and energy worrying about the quality of their children’s schooling. They were cultivated and cultured, and so worried a great deal about decor and interior design. They were rich, and worried more about money than the poorest squatter in the stews below. Above all they were sensitive, and as a consequence worried constantly about the state of their eternal souls.
‘These people are a challenge!’ Big Mac said, leaning across the table and looking Canon Tom hard in the eyes. ‘How do you see yourself responding to that challenge?’
Canon Tom looked away and tried to think of the answers he had prepared while sitting in the car. ‘I’d say now, and no disrespect meant, that the old priest had let things slip a bit,’ he said after a pause, as if for thought. He wondered if he were taking too big a risk criticizing the last PP. Still, it was common knowledge that the old man had let the place go to the dogs.
‘It needs the firmer hand of a younger man, I take it that’s what you’re saying?’
‘I think I’m that man,’ said the Canon. In for a penny, in for a pound, he told himself.
‘These people are a challenge,’ said the Cardinal for the third time. ‘But they’re more than that. This parish is vital to the h
ealth of our Holy Mother the Church.’
‘In what way?’
‘Dammit man, are you blind altogether? These are the people who really matter. The leaders of tomorrow. Lose them and we may as well pack up altogether.’
‘But surely …’ began the Canon.
The Cardinal waved him into silence. ‘Lose them just once and you may as well throw in the towel. We’ve seen it happen often enough all over the world. First the Continent. Then Latin America. We lose the so-called intelligentsia and the next thing you know the rest of the country is following after them like a herd of Gadarene swine. Mark my words, Ireland will be next. In a few years’ time there will be no control. Instead of listening to their priests, they’ll be answering back, telling us what their so-called informed consciences are saying. They’ll be openly defying instructions from the altar.’
Was it his imagination or was the old man beginning to foam at the mouth? Canon Tom took out his handkerchief (silk and monogrammed, a present from one of the aunts) and mopped his brow. He cast his eye over the spreadsheet which the Cardinal had thrust at him at the beginning of the interview. It gave the weekly audited returns from the parish, broken down avenue by avenue. His eyes widened. Here was largesse indeed! So many noughts, so many covenants and deeds of gift. Here was a balance sheet in a very healthy state. In the middle of all that affluence he could be very happy indeed. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘the collections are well up. I don’t see any falling off in generosity.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ snapped Big Mac. ‘That’s precisely my point. When they feel guilty they start paying over the odds. But look at some of the other figures. Look at page ten. Attendance at Sunday evening devotions … down five per cent. Or page eleven, the average numbers taking part in the Holy Hour … down two point five per cent over the last quarter alone. And confessions! Down five per cent. Five per cent! No doubt these people have pressing engagements down at the yacht club … ’
‘Or on the golf course … ‘echoed Canon Tom.
‘… and they think they can buy off their obligations to Almighty God by tossing a few extra quid on the plate. But God isn’t fooled.’
‘And neither are we.’
‘The next thing you’ll find is that attendance at Sunday Mass is down. And then the rot will set in,’ he said ominously. He leaned across the table, his face now so close to the Canon’s that he could smell the mouthwash on his breath. ‘I for one will not stand for it. Do I make myself perfectly clear?’
‘Perfectly, Your Eminence.’
‘So how would you propose dealing with this problem should the job be offered to you?’
He took a minute before answering. How would he deal with it? he asked himself. And did he really want this job if it was going to be nothing but hassle? The Redemptorists?’ he suggested tentatively.
The Cardinal struck the desk forcefully with the palm of his hand. The Redemptorists! Would you listen to the man! Have you not understood a word I’ve been saying?’
‘I thought this would be right up their street …’ He was sure it was the answer he had been taught in the seminary.
The Cardinal suddenly softened; his voice dropped, his manner became more confidential. ‘Listen to me, Canon, for the love of God. You can’t deal with this crowd the way you’d deal with the rest. This isn’t some crowd of bog-trotters in County Mayo that are going to toe the line after a sermon or two on the imminent danger of hellfire. Now, you know as well as I do that anywhere else in the country backsliding on this scale and the solution would be obvious …’
‘Send in the Redemptorists.’
‘Precisely. Send in the Redemptorists. Give them their head for a week or two. Let them sniff around the place, get to work on the parishioners.’
‘The gloves off, no holds barred.’
‘They’re the boys who would soon find out the ringleaders.’
‘And neutralize them.’
‘They would have a little chat with the man on the spot, the PP …’
‘Ask him what the hell was going on …’
‘But this crowd above in Adam and Eve’s …’ The Cardinal
‘I take your point,’ agreed the Canon with a grin. It was dawning on him that the Cardinal needed him as much as he needed the Cardinal and that the job was as good as his. ‘There’s a lot of what we call new money in that area. I can’t exactly see them responding to the charms of the Redemptorists.’
‘They’ve done God’s work all over the country, missions in every parish. Perhaps if the crowd of gobshites under question, with their “new money” were to pay more attention to real men like the Redemptorists we wouldn’t be having half this trouble.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ said the Canon soothingly. ‘Where would we be without them, great men altogether? But, as Your Eminence has just remarked, maybe not quite right for the present task in hand.’
‘These people need to feel they have a special place in the Church,’ said the old man. ‘They need to feel valued, loved and admired. The middle classes need a lot of reassurance. They’re new money as you say; they don’t have the advantages of a man like yourself, raised with old money. These people need to feel that they have a special relationship with God.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Canon Tom, feeling it safe to presume that the post was his.
‘You’ll do a damn sight more than that! You’ll get every man jack of them back to their duties. I don’t care how you do it, but you’ll do it. I want the churches full on Sunday, morning and evening. I want them back at confession. I want to hear that the family rosary is back in fashion. A young man like yourself should be able to knock some sense into them. Keep them happy. Give them the sort of sermon you know will appeal to people of that class. Aren’t they your own sort of people, near enough! Get the envelope collection organized, and the boys’ confraternity and the women’s sodality. Give them plenty of activities in the parochial hall – Gilbert and Sullivan, whist drives, that sort of thing. Make them feel part of the Church. Get the women involved. The women …’ He paused ‘… Always keep the women happy. That’s the key to being a success in this line of work … the women.’
‘Give me a year,’ Canon Tom said confidently, ‘and I guarantee you’ll see results.’
The Cardinal rose and walked round to him. He patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’re a rising star by all accounts. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go far. You have the right connections, the right backers. You even have …’ and he squeezed the younger man’s elbow gently ‘… the good looks. But remember, no cock-ups.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Canon Tom.
‘I think you won’t find Adam and Eve’s a totally unrewarding experience,’ said the Cardinal, pausing at the door. ‘They tell me the parochial house has a particularly well-stocked cellar.’
Five
For four months after his interview with Schnozzle neither Joe nor Frank darkened the Patriot’s door. Joe lay low during the day. Then he headed off alone, under cover of darkness, sometimes not returning for days at a time. But it didn’t take Teresa long to spot the change in his behaviour and to worm out of him the reason.
‘Merciful God!’ she declared when he told her Schnozzle had asked for him by name. He tried to shrug it off, sticking a carrot under his nose and parading round the kitchen while Frank laughed silently.
‘God bless the mark!’ she shouted, snatching it from him and throwing it to the pigs in the yard. ‘You’ll land the lot of us in the soup with behaviour like that.’
‘What harm is there in a bit of a joke?’
‘We’ll see who’s laughing when those Sisters he’s organizing get to hear about it!’
‘Sisters? Sisters my arse! A lot of scaremongering to impress the Belfast lads.’ He spat in the fire. ‘We have our hands full with the Brothers.’
‘You’re very quick with your criticism, but where would we be without them?’
But though Joe had taken hi
s custom elsewhere, he missed the company in the Patriot Bar. And when he heard the latest stunt that McCoy was planning, curiosity got the better of prudence. He told Teresa he was going to have another crack at confession, dressed himself in his suit and hat, whistled to Frank to come along, and set out for the Shambles.
The idea for the snakes came to McCoy one night while he was propping up the bar of the Provincial Hotel in Dungannon pretending to be a commercial traveller. Ill disguised in a collar and tie, he was regaling anyone who would drink with him with stories of his days on the boat. During a lull in the conversation his attention was drawn to a programme on the television in the corner of the bar. He called for hush and had the volume turned up. It was a documentary on a particular religious sect somewhere in the dustier parts of North America, which had incorporated the handling of snakes into their religious services, claiming immunity from the ill effects of the venom on the grounds of their total belief in their own righteousness. There was a lot of chanting and singing, hollering and fainting and laying on of hands. Pastor McCoy saw little television, but when he did he gave it his full, uncritical attention. He noted with approval the writhing, tormented bodies of the American congregation. He listened with joy to their screams and ejaculations. He mentally noted the texts that were invoked. And all the time he seemed to hear a voice in his head, a still small voice addressing him by name, telling him that he had been elected to bring this rich and meaningful experience to the people of Ulster. Snakes, the voice was telling him, would put the pep back into his act. Snakes would make his fortune.