by Edward Toman
‘Wasn’t Sharkey on the ball to import them from the Gaeltacht before they died out entirely. As long as you can get them to work, there’s no way you could corrupt these lads.’
‘None at all, Father. Hearts of corn.’
‘And the grants will come in handy over the years,’ added the Canon slyly. It was his way of saying that the bottle was as good as empty.
The monotonous thud of the machine punctuated their conversations. Initial sales were good. The Canon gave the motor a lick of grease, added another drive belt and doubled production. It now ran night and day, churning out the prophylactics at the rate of one every thirty seconds. He had calculated from a few sums on an old betting slip, using his knowledge as a confessor, that this should exactly keep pace with demand. Noreen was given a roll of greaseproof paper and set to work on the kitchen table hand-wrapping them individually. Cornelius fashioned a stamp from a halved potato that read ‘Déanta in Éirinn’ and carried the Bishop’s nihil obstat. Sharkey arrived every month now, carting the fruits of their labour off in the back of the donkey cart. They would spread throughout Donegal and across the border; Joe Feely and others in that line of work would carry them back across the border again and into the south where they would eventually find their way into every household in the country.
They found their way soon enough to the hilltop Palace where Cardinal Maguire cautiously tore open a packet and sniffed at them suspiciously. He was no biological expert – there had been no need for such nonsense years ago when he had been in training – but the sight and the feel of the flaccid seaweed bladders made him laugh aloud and thank God he was celibate. What the hell was the Bishop of Galway playing at, allowing the country to be flooded with these unlikely invitations to lust? His Fermanagh common sense told him they were a chimera, a flash in the pan that would disappear in no time. His younger colleagues, no doubt, would be getting hot under the collar and demanding action. Big Mac consigned the Canon Toms to the waste disposal and decided to bide his time.
Sharkey brought a handful of letters with every trip now, from parish priests or concerned members of the laity, inquiring about Cornelius’s licence or offering to invest in his company. After the years of silence this was a cornucopia of attention. Cornelius spent the mornings answering each one, assuring potential consumers that the products were completely natural and safe, morally and physically, and enclosing a complimentary packet of three. He could promise the clergy that all his paperwork was in order and that the condoms complied in every detail with the edicts of the Church Fathers; his books were open for inspection at any time from authorized members of the Cardinal’s staff, and, though the formula was a family secret, he wrote, it had been tested by a commission from the hierarchy and pronounced acceptable. And, yes, he could reassure any who wrote in Irish that only full-blooded Irish speakers were employed at every stage of production.
The Canon was content to leave this line of work to Cornelius, on the understanding that he would take care of financial matters when the money started to flow in. Meanwhile he busied himself with the job of parish priest. From time to time he would rouse himself to answer a request to bless a sick cow, or to baptize a still-born infant, or to sprinkle holy water over the hull of a new curragh (or later in the week to officiate at the obsequies of those foolish enough to venture into the Atlantic in a craft so frail). But these parochial duties were rare. Most days and nights he was to be found at the fireside at Moran’s, holding forth on matters political, ecclesiastical, sporting or financial, while Cornelius kept him company and deferred to his opinions, and Noreen kept their glasses topped up. The early success of the business venture had done wonders for him. His appetite was back. He was losing that gaunt look and beginning to resemble his old self again. He was prepared to put up with the company of Cornelius, now that the end was in sight. A year of this, he told himself, and he would have worked his passage out of this purgatory. He would have made himself indispensable to the Irish people. He would emerge from exile as a hero, the man who had solved the great conundrum of the age. Even the Cardinal would have to welcome him back with open arms. One more year, he told himself. He could hold out for one more year.
The Tyrone man pulled Joe to one side out of earshot of the company.
‘Have you by any chance any more of those Canon Toms about you?’ he whispered, the dome of his head turning scarlet at the mention of them. ‘They’re not for myself, you understand, but I told the brother-in-law I would look out for a packet when I was in the town.’
‘A discontinued line,’ Joe said bitterly. ‘Tell your brother-in-law he’ll have to go back to unnatural practices like the rest of us.’
For within nine months the dream had faded and within the year the bubble had burst. The seaweed condoms might be theologically and ecologically sound but the booming birth rate bore witness to a major functional defect. Once more the Canon felt the darkness closing in around him. He offered up a novena to the Madonna and tried to salvage the situation. He changed the formula, knowing that somewhere there must exist a compromise that would satisfy the needs of man and God. Instructions went out to the cainteoiri dúchais who laboured under the cliffs to collect only the youngest, purest fronds; he toyed with the secret ingredients; he increased the percentage of Lourdes water. He relaunched the product, autographing each packet personally in his desperation, and guaranteeing their efficacy, but he knew in his heart of hearts that the game was up. Comhlacht Chondom Teo. was bankrupt. He didn’t need to wait for Sharkey’s arrival to rub salt in the wound. He retired to the study, locking the door behind him.
The men of Ireland went back to the old ways. Some experimented with cling film, the majority settled for self abuse. The little greaseproof paper packages had sentimental associations for some, but as often as not they lay unopened in the bedroom drawer, adding to the boudoir a pot pourri of the sea.
Cornelius laid off most of the native speakers and watched them departing stoically over the mountains.
A year passed, and another. Only the wind and the weather denoted the changing seasons. Of the outside world there was no news. Sharkey had all but deserted them, and more than once hunger stared them in the face. The Canon knew now that he was fated to live out his days at the end of the Yellow Meal Road, and that Big Mac would never lift his exile. Ballychondom sank back into obscurity. Outside its fortress of mountains, where no radio signal ever penetrated, the rest of Ulster, for all they knew, might be in the throes of murder and mayhem, but nothing of these things reached them. There were a few new cottages each year, taking the place of the old ones when the new grants came, but they were mostly deserted, or occupied only in summer months. From time to time a lone traveller would come the length of the road, escaping from God knows what, but such visitors were rare and never tarried, for though Cornelius craved their company, the Canon treated them with rude suspicion, fearing them to be spies of the Palace.
Apart from her friendship with old Páidi Mhici Óig, Noreen had no one for company, but she was a bright girl, and maybe one day she would surprise them all. From Cornelius she learned to read and write, using the few mouldering books he had brought with him from the Missionary College; in no time at all she could decipher the titles on their crumbling spines. From the Canon she learned her prayers and her catechism in preparation for her first Communion. And though he grumbled and complained, he had to admit that she had a natural modesty and the gift of piety. And from the last native speaker she learned to pray in the only language that An Mhuire Chiúin acknowledged.
‘From the depths I have cried to Thee O Lord
O Lord hear my prayer!’
The words of the De Profundis echoed round the desolate chapel every week. The Canon buried his head in his hands and cried out to his Maker at the unfairness of it all. ‘Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachthani?’ – why have you deserted me O Lord? – the cry of the persecuted Job. Would he try Saint Jude one more time, the patron of hopeless cases, his last hope? Or
would he give the Silent Madonna one last chance? One last novena, one final shot. He prayed like he had never prayed before, putting his heart and his soul into it, giving himself over completely to Her, beseeching Her to intercede for him, to grant him the means to escape from this living hell. For nine days he knelt before Her statue, his eyes never leaving Her, telling his beads over and over again, decade after decade, till his fingers were calloused and bleeding and his knees were numb with rheumatism. And on the ninth day, when he finished the cycle, he blessed himself and rose wearily from the cold stone prie-dieu in front of Her, and felt an inner peace descend on him, and a great weight lift from his shoulders, and for a fleeting moment he thought that the austere visage of the statue had softened slightly, and was gazing down on him more benignly.
So when Noreen confided in him during her first confession that evening that the Silent Madonna had finally roused Herself and entrusted to her a message for the people of Ireland he knew that his prayers had been answered. With pounding heart he questioned the girl for details. The Madonna had spoken to her, in mellifluous speech she barely understood, foretelling a wondrous future time when the separated brethren would be converted and there would be true unity in the land. The Canon bit his hand hard to prove that he wasn’t dreaming. But it was no dream! Mingled with the celestial choirs echoing through his brain he heard the ringing of a thousand cash registers. He leapt to his feet in the confessional and, leaving the startled child half absolved, gave praise in a loud voice – so loud that it brought Cornelius over from the house fearing the worst.
TWO
Eleven
On Halloween night a black-clad figure came marching up the lane and hammered on the door.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Teresa whispered. ‘Who in God’s name can be calling at this hour?’ Frank was sitting quietly by the fireside, amusing himself teasing the dog, and Joe had been gone for a month, God knows where. She wasn’t expecting any callers. With danger stalking every turn in the road, what trick or treaters would venture the length of the Feely farm? The knocking persisted. Frank ran to his mother and the dog began to bark. She knew it could be danger, but there would be scant use ignoring it. It could be a neighbour in trouble, or someone maybe shot below on the main road. With Frank clutching at her skirts, she went to the door and drew the bolt. Standing outside, with the rain doing nothing for his ill humour, was the formidable figure of Brother Murphy.
He strode past her into the room without as much as a by your leave and came straight to the point.
‘That lad of yours is nearly fourteen,’ he boomed. ‘He’s to have his confession heard and make his first Holy Communion before the paschal season is over.’
At the sight of the Christian Brother, Frank had begun to wail and the dog, taking its cue from its young master, was howling in unison. Brother Murphy was in no mood for either of them. He lifted his boot and kicked the dog in the rump, then lifted his hand and belted Frank around the head. Neither animal nor boy needed a second warning. They scuttled to the back of the hearth and cowered there while Brother Murphy conducted his business with Teresa.
‘I’ve been to the Palace! The annual audit is in full swing. Your boy’s name is conspicuous among those not yet prepared for the sacraments. At his age he should be making his confirmation.’
‘But, Brother,’ Teresa protested, ‘you know yourself he has a problem.’
‘I’m not interested in your problems! The boy is my responsibility. I have His Eminence’s instructions. He’ll go to Drogheda in the spring. We have a boarding school there. They’ll not be long teaching him deaf-and-dumb so he can make his confession with the rest of them.’
‘I’ll have to discuss it with his father when he gets back.’
‘Discuss! What is there to discuss when the boy’s eternal future is at stake? Tell your husband I’ll come for the boy myself the week after Easter.’
He slammed the door behind him and stalked out into the night. It was only when he was safely gone that the dog allowed itself a low growl of anger.
Fair days and drinking days and trips afield with mysterious packages kept Joe busy for most of the winter. The holy shrines were closed until after Saint Patrick’s Day, for the winters were long and hard, and pilgrimages were forbidden in the barren months. But when April with its warm showers had taken the chill out of the air the pilgrimage season started again. From all over Ireland they came to Croagh Patrick, the holy mountain. Every morning, through the rising mist, a thin line of pilgrims, some on hands and knees, would be seen winding their way to the shrine on the summit. There were non-stop Masses at the altar there, and confessions for urgent cases, for the mountain was steep and took its toll every season. From every parish, too, they went to Knock, to pray before the shrine of the Virgin, to touch the spot where she had appeared flanked by the Baptist and the Evangelist on the gable wall of the old church. They prayed in the massive basilica, visited the grave of the saintly curé who had kept alive devotion to the shrine when it was in danger of dying, and hunted for souvenirs in the little shops that crowded the pathways to the holy places. There were ten thousand holy sites in Ireland: shrines and wells and statues and graves and churches; each had its adherents who swore by its efficacy as a shield against the terrors of the material world. But one place above all attracted the serious pilgrim. It was the holiest and the hardest of all the pilgrimages; it had been a place of penance and worship for a thousand years and more, a place used by Saint Patrick himself. It had survived the penal persecutions and the reforms of previous centuries; it formed an unbroken link with a time when Ireland was truly the island of saints and scholars. That place was Saint Patrick’s Purgatory on the island of Lough Derg.
Joe waited impatiently for the end of Lent. He had given up the drink for the duration, Sundays and Holy Days of Obligation excepted, and he moped around the house, getting in everybody’s way, looking morose and crestfallen. He took to humming patriotic airs, to the irritation of his wife who counteracted him with soulful sighs that would have quietened a more sensitive man. Saint Patrick’s Day came and went; he got drunk and fought as was the local custom, but the return to sobriety the next day was worse than ever. The days were lengthening and he was anxious to begin the rounds. Every year he started with Lough Derg, regarding it as a spiritual spring cleaning to set him up for the summer. But Lough Derg was out of bounds till Easter, for the Charismatics, what was left of them, had it booked for the forty days and forty nights of Lent, and it would have been a braver man than Joe who would interrupt their penance.
Good Friday was cold and damp. He was pacing the floor from dawn, anxious to be on his way.
‘You’ll see a great change in him when we get back,’ he announced. ‘If Lough Derg doesn’t do the trick God knows what will.’
‘He’ll get his death,’ she argued. ‘Anyway, he’s still too young for the island. Leave him where he is.’
‘He’ll never be cured if you leave him where he is. Lough Derg will be just what the doctor ordered.’
‘Maybe it’s the will of God he’s the way that he is.’
‘Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s down to Brother Murphy beating the shite out of him when he was only a baby! Either way I’m not handing him over to those lads again till I’ve tried everything.’
She knew that any further argument would be pointless, for she could see that he had his mind set on it. She went to the press to pack him a bag, knowing that he wouldn’t be needing much.
The boatman surveyed them sourly. ‘That lad’s far too young. Get him out of here before you land me in the soup.’ He indicated the black-clad figure of the priest on the jetty keeping the pilgrims in order. He had a stout blackthorn stick in one hand; he would raise it now and then to deal out a blow to one of the twitching men huddled in the boats.
‘The DTs,’ whispered Joe in Frank’s ear. ‘There’s a crowd for you with no will power. They’ve been on the sauce all Lent. It’s their last chance of drying o
ut.’
He placed a five-pound note in the boatman’s palm and slowly and firmly closed his hand around it. ‘Jesus, Mister Feely, it’s as much as my life’s worth!’
‘We’re in no hurry,’ Joe assured him. ‘Just give us a shout when your man there goes off for a bite to eat.’
They sat on the wall watching the boats crossing to and from the island. The pilgrims arrived in busloads on the jetty, stretching themselves and yawning and looking across the lough to where the basilica and the convent buildings rose out of the water. They looked hungry and tired, for most of them had been up since the previous evening, and they hadn’t eaten for two days. They sucked nervously on cigarettes, throwing the butts into the brown water of the lake as they waited for their boats to manoeuvre alongside the jetty and the boatmen to order them roughly aboard. Each pilgrimage was accompanied by a chaplain, sometimes two: cheerful, well-fed-looking men who joked with the ladies and smoked king-sized cigarettes, and who gave out the rosary or started up a hymn when there was any hitch in the arrangements.
‘If you were to sit here long enough,’ said Joe after a while, ‘it would be as good as a geography lesson, just reading the names on the sides of the buses.’ For they had come from all over the country, Kildare and Dublin, Cavan and far-off Kerry. The jetty was alive with the cadences of the four provinces. Joe fancied himself an expert in the matter of accents. He tried to get the boy to distinguish Cork from Kerry, Donegal from Monaghan, and to mock them one and all. It was while they were thus engaged that Frank heard for the first time the distinctive diphthongs of the Falls Road. His father heard them too and quickly crossed himself. He gripped him tightly by the arm, and Frank could see that he had turned pale. He tried to pass it off as a joke, but his apprehension was palpable. The bus that had come lurching to a halt in front of them displayed ‘Béal Feirsde’ on its destination panel, and the Belfast pilgrims were jumping down from it before he realized the danger.