by Edward Toman
Cornelius rose, wiped his face and smoothed down the knees of his trousers. He took the Canon by the arm once more. ‘I’ll not tire you this first day out, but before we go back we’ll say a prayer to the Silent Madonna.’ Noreen skipped ahead, leading the way to the niche in the wall where the statue stood. The Canon followed where she led, grumbling slightly as he stumbled over a concealed headstone. But when he came to the Madonna he sank to his knees, crossed himself and began to pray intently, never for a moment taking his eyes off her silent stare. Cornelius lifted Noreen on to his shoulders and carried her home.
Alone for the first time, Canon Tom allowed the full realization of his plight to filter into his consciousness. He knew he could no longer put it off. He had been in a state of shock since his arrival, but the cold air had revived him, and the bleak topography brought home to him the reality of his banishment. He had to get a grip on himself; he had to take stock. He looked into the eyes of the Virgin and pleaded for guidance. Was escape possible from this desolation? All his training and experience told him that a priest without money is like a chicken without a head. He would get nowhere without it; somehow he had to get access to cash, lots of it, and buy his way out of the mess he had landed in. But where in a place like this was he to get his hands on the readies? He said a decade of the rosary and as he prayed he made three resolutions. Firstly, he would offer up a novena to the Silent Madonna for guidance. As yet her powers were untried, but it was clear that she was all that the locality had to offer. Secondly, he would survey his parish, every stone of it right up to the treacherous strand that marked the limits of his confinement, in the hope that it might have something to offer. His third resolution was that, if the previous two proved ineffective, he would kill himself. Though not by nature a depressive, he resolved that he would rather take his chances in the next world than spend a lifetime in a place as comfortless as this. Having made up his mind on a plan of action, he returned across the rocks to the house in slightly better fettle than they had seen him, going so far as to eat most of the fry that Cornelius put down to him.
For the next nine days he carried out his plan. In the morning he visited the cemetery and prostrated himself before the Madonna, offering up fifteen decades of the rosary in the best Irish he could muster for his special intentions. After his dinner he took to the heather, crisscrossing his territory till he knew it like a map. It was as bleak and dreadful as he had feared. The road was the only way in or out, and he knew better than to venture beyond the brow of the mountain, for who knew what indecorous fate awaited him if ever he fell foul of them again. There was another way out, over the strand, which you could wade across sometimes at low tide if the sea wasn’t running too fast against you. But how long would he last before they picked him up? He was determined never to give them that satisfaction. Slowly and methodically he picked his way over the rocks and hills of his new kingdom. He stopped at the deserted cottages and studied the outlines of what had once been outhouses. No one nowadays could eke out a livelihood in such surroundings. Here and there he stumbled across an old crone, the last of the family, abandoned by the others across the water, scraping out a meagre existence from the barren earth. But they shrank from him, polite but distant, unsure of who he was or what his business might be in these parts. He began to see that Cornelius wasn’t quite the jackass he had thought him to be, for it was clear that these hills and glens held no untapped wealth. With mounting despair he concluded the novena. Heaven had failed him and the earth had failed him. Either end his days an old man with only the spoiled priest for company, or take his chances on the mercy of the Lord.
He decided to take his chances with the Lord. Daily he found himself drawn to the cliffs and the surging sea below. With all hope gone, he knew he would end it there. He climbed the rocks and gazed at the ocean. The wind howled round his bare head, the rain beat mercilessly on his face. Cold tears blinded him and he felt his life pass before his eyes – images of warm, well-fitted rooms, obsequious parishioners, the Love Children at prayer, Cannonball pipped at the post, Honest Eddie and Immaculata McGillicuddy, her great face leaning towards him. He began to shrink from the vision, felt himself sway, felt the rocks calling to him; felt his feet slipping and knew he was going to resist no longer. With the words of the Act of Contrition on his lips he leaned forward into the gale and felt himself falling, falling, falling.
And by rights that should have been that. It is a moot point whether an Act of Contrition, completed in time, will under these circumstances save your immortal soul from the wrath of the Almighty. Canon Tom was not fated to find out. Our prayers are answered in mysterious ways. He came to, bruised but unbroken, at the foot of the cliff. His fall had been cushioned by the mattress of seaweed that blanketed the jagged rocks. It smothered him, great coils and belts of it, bladders and strips and leaves of it, seaweed of every colour and texture, black, yellow, clear and green; slimy and sticky, dry and lubricated, thin, thick, ribbed and contoured; a Sargasso Sea of it, jettisoned by the angry tide twice a day, smothering the rocks and stretching as far as the eye could see. He struggled to his feet, pulling the weed from his hair. He was waist-deep in it. If God had seen fit to spare him, he knew it was because He had some special plan for him. He fingered the rubbery bladders and tried to think what that special purpose might be. Then the Holy Ghost, from behind a rock or from the tops of the waves, entered his life again and in a flash he knew what he had to do. He had found the one resource that the parish was not short of, and he had found the perfect use for it.
Like a man reborn, Canon Tom clambered up the rocks, away from the moaning sea, back up the perilous path towards the church. He didn’t pause for breath till he had reached the graveyard where he prostrated himself before the statue and gave thanks. Cornelius heard him before he saw him, coming over the rocks shouting for him. ‘French letters, Moran, that’s the answer! An Irish solution to an Irish problem. What do the people want more than anything else? French letters! What can they not get for love nor money? French letters. Come indoors, sir, for there isn’t a moment to lose!’
The next month was the busiest Cornelius had ever known. The Canon organized the dismantling of the bottling plant and with its bits and pieces one of the native speakers constructed a machine that would package the new merchandise. He took over the parlour which he now referred to as his office, and from there he issued a stream of directives to Cornelius and Sharkey, when the latter appeared. The manufacture and distribution of such a commodity was fraught with difficulties, but the Canon was a man inspired and would brook no refusals. He would need permission, a nihil obstat from one of the bishops, and letters of freedom; he would need to ensure that nothing left the premises that interfered with public morals or that caused an occasion of sin; he would have to guarantee the powers that be that the articles in question would not frustrate the goal of the marriage act, while at the same time persuading the customer that they were efficacious for their intimate needs. It seemed an impossible circle to square, but the Canon was confident that his discovery would pass the most rigorous test. At first Sharkey wouldn’t touch the idea, threatening to set the Sisters on them, but the promise of a lucrative market share, and the revelation that such items were not illegal ‘per se’ (only illegal if they worked) bought his grudging acquiescence.
While he left Cornelius in no doubt as to who would be running the show, he needed him as a front man. ‘You’ll appreciate, Mister Moran,’ he confided, dropping his voice, ‘that it wouldn’t be the done thing for a man in my position to be seen to be too closely associated with a venture like this. But aren’t you the perfect man for it? You’ve no place in society. You’ve nothing to lose. You’ll pardon me saying it, but you can hardly sink any lower. You’re perfect for what I have in mind. Everyone wants such a project to succeed, mark my words! Even the top brass in Church and State. They’ve been searching for the philosopher’s stone on this one for years. The problem is, no one wants to be too closely asso
ciated with it; you’re the answer to their prayers. What possible scandal could you be, stuck out here in the back of beyond! None! Are you going to corrupt the morals of your workforce? Not at all; the native speakers won’t have a clue what’s going on. All you need now, to keep yourself in the clear, is a spiritual adviser, and sure who knows more about the problem than myself, after my time in Adam and Eve’s? A little bit of research and a few prayers and we’ll be churning them out in no time at all, meeting the most stringent requirements of Vatican Two. And as to our financial arrangements … well. I’ll speak to you later about that, when we’re up and running.’ Cornelius nodded agreement, knowing better than to spoil anything by remonstrating about money.
Canon Tom was a changed man. One minute he’d be out in the lean-to, testing the machine and making fine adjustments to it to make the product more acceptable to the home market. Next minute he’d be in the parlour, with Cornelius banished to the kitchen, writing out the formulae in maths and Latin that would satisfy the demands of theology and biology. By midsummer they were ready to apply for the licence, satisfied that neither the hierarchy nor the Sisters would find any objection on the grounds of faith or morals. The Canon was confident. ‘I’ve tested them to destruction,’ he assured Cornelius. ‘They’re the real thing. One hundred per cent natural. Biodegradable. Free from artificial additives. Totally in compliance with the strictest interpretation of the Papal Encyclicals on family matters. Made in Ireland, using only Irish-speaking labour and Irish materials. Mark my words, there’ll be a grant or two in this!’
When he wasn’t busy in the factory he was busy in the church. He risked life and limb on the roof to fit an old bit of tarpaulin over the worst hole, and he mended the broken door with a length of driftwood. The shattered windows were boarded up, and Páidi Mhici Óig, the cainteoir dúchais, was ordered across to clean the place out, polish up the brasswork and disinfect the altar rails. The next Sunday he said his first Mass in his new parish, and dedicated it to Our Lady of Sorrows, after the enigmatic visage of the Madonna and the exile she endured among them. Cornelius and Noreen knelt at the front while a few of the native speakers straggled in late and crept out early, in accordance with local custom.
A month or so later he had the provisional licence from the Bishop of Galway, a cousin, it transpired, of Sharkey’s, issued on the understanding that it could be revoked without notice should any article be found to be morally defective. A week later they had a form from Dublin Castle inviting them to apply for a grant under the rural Gaeltacht scheme. The Canon poured a drink and solemnly drank a toast to the success of the venture. Together the two of them walked through to the outhouse and switched on the machine. There was a clanking and a whirring as the generator coughed into life; the cainteoir dúchais on duty began to feed coils of slithering seaweed into the hopper, while his companion added carefully measured quantities of lubricant and Lourdes water. A minute later the first of the batch came tumbling off the production line and Ballychondom, as it would henceforth come to be known, was on the map at last.
As he waited for Sharkey to collect the first consignment, Cornelius embarked on a project that he had been contemplating ever since the Canon made his announcement. Another book, one that was long due. The History of the Condom in Ireland, he would call it. He made some preliminary notes, some chapter headings. The uninitiated might think that such a history would make a very slim volume, the condom having no legal existence in the country. But Cornelius knew better. Though they might be officially banned, no nation knew more about or cared as deeply for the little latex pouches as the Irish. Unlike the rest of the world where they were objects of fun or embarrassment, in Ireland they had always been the subject of serious debate. Priests and nuns were quite at home addressing themselves to their shortcomings. Men in pubs had theories about them. Maidens, young and old, of both sexes, were happy to discuss them earnestly. It mattered little that no one would admit to having ever seen one of the articles under discussion, for the customs authorities were vigilant in that department, managing to hold back most of the tide of latex from the North or across the water. The Church was against anything that could be used to hamper the fullness of the marriage act, and the secular authorities saw no reason to argue with that. Sex in marriage was a grey area where every man and woman, married or not, was an expert. What was lawful, what was permissible, what was truly sinful, all were subjects to be debated endlessly round the fireside, in the radio studio, in the classroom, in the pulpit. Long after her European neighbours had given up caring, Ireland stood bravely alone against the restricting rubber. Condoms reared their knobbly heads in every session of the Oireachtas, usually commanding all-night sittings. Hardly a month went by that their virtues and drawbacks weren’t thrashed out in the chamber and corridors of Leinster House and every month the rubber goods bounced back for more. The economy might be collapsing and the poor might be taking over the streets, but the elected representatives of the people could be relied on to get their priorities right, their heated debates often resolved by fisticuffs.
And if the TDs were keen, the men of the cloth were keener still. Cornelius remembered it well enough from his time away – poring over the Latin debates from synod and conference, trying to determine exactly the divine viewpoint. There were sermons to read, and pastoral letters and bulls and encyclicals, all devoted to the place of the condom in contemporary culture. The more Cornelius warmed to his subject the more he realized he had the makings of a thick volume on his hands. He pictured it, a runaway bestseller, turning him into something of a celebrity, rehabilitating him, putting him in demand. There would be nothing salacious or risky in it, God forbid, but nothing fuddy-duddy about it either. Just pure reason and argument and technology, presenting both sides of the coin. It would be a book that the chastest maiden in the land – and there were still many such – would not blush to be seen with, one that even the Reverend Mothers would be happy to place alongside their missals and recommend as devotional reading to their charges. He’d need to get his hands on the back copies of the papers if he was to do the job right. Sharkey couldn’t be trusted to get them for him. Maybe when things settled he would risk a trip to Dublin, leaving the Canon to look after the girl. No one need recognize him. He could spend a week in UCD going through the archives, making notes of important milestones in the history of the subject, getting his quotes right, checking his dates. It would be just the tonic that the new business needed to get it off to a good start.
Thus in a burst of enthusiasm was Comhlacht Chondom Teoranta born. One small discreet sign, in two languages, announced to the traveller (should any venture that way) the nature of the business being conducted in the lean-to. From this workshop, redolent of the ocean, came the guttural voices of Páidi Mhici Óig and his companion as they went about their mysterious duties. The whole house echoed to the lilt of their laughter. ‘What are they laughing at?’ Noreen was forever asking her father. She had grown attached to the native speaker, and he to her. He would take her on his knee and show her the machine pounding away, or let her hand him the screwdriver and hold the hammer on the frequent occasions when it shuddered to a halt. He spoke to her in his own language, for Páidi Mhici Óig made few concessions to the modern ways, and she answered him in Irish, fluent in her childish way in both tongues. But there were things that the old man said that far surpassed her understanding.
‘What are they laughing at?’ she asked again.
‘Some great joke,’ her father replied, ‘though it would take a better man than myself to know what it is they’re talking about.’
They spoke Irish to his face too, and though he did his best to follow them and join in their mirth, he had to admit to the Canon that he was banjaxed. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing,’ he said, ‘there’ll be no smut in it. Of that you can be certain.’
‘Agreed, Mister Moran, agreed.’ The Canon nodded his assent.
‘Sure anyone in Belfast will tell you there isn’t a sw
ear word in the whole language, much less words for … well, you know what I’m saying.’
‘I do. I do surely.’ The Canon was an uncertain Gaelic scholar, and knew better than to question cherished folk wisdom. Everyone knew for a fact that there was no vocabulary in the language of the Gael that dealt with sexual matters.
‘There isn’t even a word,’ said Cornelius, leaning forward and speaking confidentially, ‘for the little articles they’re making beyond!’
‘Is that a fact?’ said the priest. He had been over this ground many times with the proprietor. He let Cornelius refill his glass. ‘Well, if there isn’t a word for it, I don’t suppose they can have any concept of it. It was Thomas Aquinas who worked that one out, correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘Not at all. I’d say you hit the nail on the head. They have no understanding of what they are doing. A very innocent people altogether.’
‘What you are saying is that there is no occasion of sin in the employment you’re providing!’
Perhaps the sausages at teatime had disagreed with him, Cornelius thought, noting the hint of petulance in the Canon’s voice. The word ‘sin’ was not one he cared to hear bandied about too much in the circumstances. Think of the employment,’ he said. ‘Páidi Mhici Óig could be beyond in England if it wasn’t for myself, losing his faith.’
The Canon allowed himself to be mollified. ‘I take your point entirely,’ he said. ‘Speaking as a confessor, Mister Moran, I can tell you that you wouldn’t find a more decent crowd of people in a month of Sundays.’
‘Don’t I give my own daughter the run of the place?’
‘You do indeed, and why wouldn’t you? She’ll hear no smut from these people.’
‘Very clean-living. And loyal too.’