by Edward Toman
It was a bright morning in California; the sun shimmered in a cloudless sky with the promise of another joyful day. But Father Alphonsus McLoughlin lay supine in his bed, his body frozen in fear and foreboding. He had woken from a dreadful dream, a dream of damp streets and shattered streetlamps, where ignorant armies clashed by night. And from the gloomy periphery of this phantasmagoria there had emerged a fearful creature, clearly dead yet calling him by name. He recognized the tortured face of Ramirez the reprobate, clutching in his lifeless hands the figurine with the merciless eyes. Alphonsus tried to drive the nightmare from his brain with a prayer, but the pockmarked features lingered. He woke in a sweat. Ramirez’s hideous visage was still in his mind’s eye. What had he done to deserve this haunting? What evil had he unwittingly unleashed the day he brought the icon back over the border to set alongside the Sacred Heart?
He brewed himself a pot of strong coffee and tried to dispel the terror of the night. But to no avail. It was an omen. He knew that his days in the sun were numbered. When the letter clanged into the mailbox he didn’t need to look any further than the embossed crest to know what it ordered.
A lesser man might have jacked up at this point and tried to make a run for it. Taken the BART under the bay to the airport and headed south of the border. But Father Alphonsus knew from a boyhood spent in Belfast that there was no hiding place. He prostrated himself on the carpet and offered up his suffering for the Holy Souls in purgatory. Then he packed his bags, bid Sausalito a tearful farewell, took the trail east and found himself, a month later, organizing the Sacred Heart Sodality on the Falls Road under the critical eye of Schnozzle and Sister Immaculata.
When the coast was clear, Patrick Pearse sought him out, explained as delicately as possible the predicament, and canvassed his opinion about clearing the family name. ‘Get down on your knees and put your trust in the Sacred Heart,’ Father Alphonsus advised him. Patrick Pearse looked doubtful. It was folk wisdom round the ghetto that you didn’t go fooling with the Sacred Heart. But Father Alphonsus would have none of his temerity. ‘You’ve heard of the Nine First Fridays? That gilt-edged guarantee open to any member of the faithful. That’s the sort of guy you’re dealing with! He’ll keep his side of the bargain.’
Patrick Pearse still looked uneasy.
‘Listen up, buddy,’ said Father Alphonsus confidentially. ‘I think I may be able to cut you in on a deal here. The annual pilgrimage to Lough Derg is coming up at the end of Lent, and I’ve been asked to lead it. What an opportunity for a guy like you to strike a bargain with the Sacred Heart …’
‘Lough Derg! Are you codding, Father? It would kill me! None of the McGuffins ever done Lough Derg.’
‘Then you’ll have to be the first!’
Patrick Pearse knew he was getting in above his head, but could see no way out.
‘How will I know if we have a deal?’
‘Go about your business in the normal way. When He’s ready for you, my son, you’ll know okay.’
Down to his last shilling at Celtic Park on Shrove Tuesday, with the prospect of six long weeks without a winner before him, Patrick Pearse came to a decision. Three races remained on the card. He dropped to his knees at the trackside and invoked the car of the Sacred Heart. Three winners at decent odds and he would do Lough Derg.
His last few coppers went on a mangy outsider, a dog that could hardly make it to the starting box. But he took the lead from the first bend and was never under pressure. He trebled his winnings on the next race and trebled them again on the last, despite the protests of the bookie who suspected that the dogs had been doctored. He returned that night to Sebastopol Street, his pockets lined with silver.
Next morning the full enormity of the situation struck him. A bargain is a bargain, and the Sacred Heart is not one to accidentally forget when a debt is due. He remembered the words of Father Alphonsus, ‘You don’t mess with the Sacred Heart, buddy! No sir, you keep your word and He’ll keep His. But remember this, the Sacred Heart plays hardball!’ Patrick Pearse didn’t exactly know what hardball was, but on that Ash Wednesday morning he had a queasy feeling he was about to find out.
There was a going-away party for the pilgrims on their last night. The Roger Casement Lounge was packed. It echoed to the familiar songs – ‘Four Green Fields’, ‘The Broad Black Brimmer’, The Boys from the Old Brigade’. All around him those who were for the island were sinking pints and doubles like men on their way to the gallows. The centre of each table was piled high with potato crisps and packets of peanuts, while solicitous relatives were buying more with each round. The crack was good, for there is nothing like a pilgrimage to give the edge to a night’s drinking, and everyone in the club could share the feeling of unease and anticipation. Even those who had made the journey a dozen times felt the lure of the Purgatory once more, and for those who had never been outside the ghetto before, the prospect opened up new and daunting horizons. Patrick Pearse threw a few pints into him, but his heart was not in it. What the fuck had he let himself in for? he asked himself over and over again. Round these streets he had once been somebody. The young lads had looked up to him; he even had a bit of a reputation as a hard man. He pictured himself marooned on a wet, windy island in the middle of some lake in foreign parts, without as much as a cup of tea or a poke of chips, and wondered, not for the first time, if he would last the course. The whole thing was an affront to his dignity. He knew the types who were attracted to Lough Derg – old dipsos and pious wee women with strange scruples. Maybe the odd lad testing his vocation before risking Maynooth. Pimply-looking fellows who had exhausted all other avenues for getting their hands on women and held the popular belief that big nurses from the Free State were to be had for the asking after three days on a diet of Lough Derg soup. He emptied another pint down his throat and tried not to dwell on what the morrow held in store for him.
As midnight approached the emcee had them all on their feet, and the shout went round for the pilgrims to drink up. The hour of total abstinence was approaching. They formed a circle, lowering their drinks as fast as they could while the crowd urged them on. Then the countdown began, the emcee leading from the microphone … ten, nine, eight, seven … Patrick Pearse McGuffin grabbed a whiskey that was held out to him and knocked it back in one gulp … three, two, one. A great cheer went up and a few balloons fell from a net suspended from the ceiling. The master of ceremonies was among them again, mike in hand, calling them forward by name while the assembly roared its encouragement. Then it was back to business; new orders were taken, fresh rounds delivered. But not for the pilgrims; they wouldn’t see another drop till they returned to the Falls Road.
He sat on the coach the next day in a fug of piety and cigarette smoke, watching the wet fields slowly unfold. He tried to concentrate on the prayers that were going on all around him, but the words of the song kept coming into his head:
I’ve got four green fields,
One of them’s in bondage.
No sooner had one rosary finished than another started. ‘“Incline unto my aid O Lord, O God make haste to help me.” ‘
‘“Make haste to help me,”’ he echoed.
Father Alphonsus turned round from his seat at the front of the bus and gave them a Californian smile. ‘We’re ahead of time,’ he announced, ‘thanks to the gallant labours of our driver.’ There was a ragged round of applause for the driver, but Patrick Pearse didn’t join in. The driver, he happened to know, was not for the island. The bastard would be tucking into a mixed grill and three pints of lager as soon as he had dropped them. ‘So I’ll tell you all what we’ll do,’ went on Father Alphonsus. ‘We’ll pay our respects to the city of Armagh.’
The bus laboured up the steep drive to the cathedral. They parked at the back of Ara Coeli and the priest herded them towards the great west door of the cathedral. Inside it was cold and dim. He climbed into the pulpit and fiddled with the microphone; a moment later the basilica was filled with the suave tones of Sausalit
o, reciting once more the prologue to the rosary. They worked their way through another five decades; then by way of diversion, and to keep the circulation going, they did the Stations of the Cross. Even the younger pilgrims were arthritic, the way all Belfast people were, and the kneeling had made them stiff. They welcomed the chance to stretch their legs and joke nervously about the imminent rigours of the island. The Stations were arranged around the cathedral walls, small vignettes of the Via Crucis in bas-relief, and they moved from one to the other slowly, reciting the prescribed prayers. Then it was into the Lady Chapel, where they paused to stare up at the mouldering red hats of past cardinals, another fifteen decades – the joyful, the sorrowful, the glorious mysteries – before Father Alphonsus led them out into the daylight again.
They stood huddled on the steps outside the door, staring across the Shambles at the Protestant cathedral on the opposite hill. ‘Now,’ said the priest with a chuckle after he had counted them, ‘I’ll stand you all a drink!’ He led them round to the side of the building to where the bus was parked. Behind it, near to the Palace railings, stood a pump, an ancient contraption with a smooth metal cap and a long iron handle. With a laugh the priest rolled up his sleeves and set to work on the squeaking lever. There was a gurgle from deep in the earth and then water began to spurt out, splashing their feet. He continued to pump vigorously, and as his face grew redder the water flowed in a continuous rush, forming a rivulet and running down the hill towards the valley below.
There was an iron cup fixed to the stump by a chain, and he filled it and drank, long and loud, smacking his lips. ‘The best water in Ireland,’ he declared. ‘They come from far and near to fill buckets with it. Both sides of the house, so I’m told. Can you credit it? It’s so pure, the people of Armagh wouldn’t drink tap water to save their lives!’ He now invited them to drink and they did so, eagerly. While they did, he entertained them with stories about the hilltop on which they stood and the water they were drinking. ‘Some of the local folk say that this pump is on the site of Saint Patrick’s original well. The water comes from springs deep under the cathedral itself. What an historic spot this is! Can’t you just feel that history all around you? Gee, I can tell you, the Yanks would pay top dollar to have anything as genuinely historic as this over there.’
‘Is it true, Father, that this is the very spot where Saint Patrick lit his paschal fire?’ asked one of the women.
‘The very spot,’ he confirmed. He had a feeling that that particular incident may have taken place somewhere else, but Father Alphonsus was not in the business of shaking the simple faith of his charges over mere details.
‘The Irish people will never give up their faith,’ said the woman, ingratiating herself with the priest.
‘Never,’ he agreed, ‘in spite of dungeon, fire and sword.’
Patrick Pearse waited for the priest to finish and then took a drink from the iron cup. The water was clear and fresh, with maybe just a hint of fermentation, but its mineral properties were lost on him. The send-off had left him with a bad taste in his mouth that only a hair of the dog could dispel. And though the pilgrimage was only a few hours old, his stomach already rumbled for strong tea and Mother’s Pride, and his thoughts wandered from the Agony in the Garden to images of sausages and fadge.
‘Now if any of the gentlemen …’ said Father Alphonsus, lowering his voice discreetly to exclude the ladies, ‘feel the need to answer nature’s call’ – he pointed to the square below and the roofless latrine that occupied the middle ground – ‘you’ll be as safe as houses down there, while the ladies and myself wait in the bus. Don’t be all day, lads. We’ll say a decade or two while we’re waiting, and then we’ll hit the road.’
Once again the green fields rushed past in a blur and the rain streamed down. They had worked through another fifteen decades and were preparing to start all over again when the bus began to slow down. ‘The border,’ announced the driver. They fell silent and apprehensive. On both sides of the road stood the burned-out carcasses of buildings, and bullet-pocked signs warned about foot and mouth and the transportation of foodstuffs and firearms. No one emerged from the charred interiors of the buildings to challenge them, and the driver kept edging gingerly forward. They crossed a narrow bridge over a stream. Someone claimed that they were now technically in the Free State. No one else spoke. They turned a bend in the road and came on a sign, in ancient ornate script ordering STAD: CUSTAIM. Inside a caravan by the roadside the customs man donned his dirty white hat and gave them a bored look. Then with a flick of the thumb he motioned them on their way. As soon as they were out of earshot, a great cheer went up and they all, priest included, lit cigarettes.
But they were no sooner over the border than they were back in the North again. The road ran along the frontier, sometimes swerving into Monaghan, sometimes into Fermanagh. Although there were no further border posts, the road signs changed from Irish to English every few miles. The pilgrims began to grow apprehensive. Even Patrick Pearse, despite a show of nonchalance for the benefit of the woman beside him, felt it himself, and despised himself for it.
The road surface rasped harshly under the wheels of the bus, then suddenly sang smoothly, indicating that they had changed jurisdiction once more. Father Alphonsus felt the panic rising in the coach. Belfast people couldn’t handle this kind of uncertainty, unlike the border people who lived with it daily. The time had come to calm their nerves. He lifted the microphone and blew into it a few times. ‘We’ll just take our minds off things for a few minutes with a verse or two of a hymn.’ His voice was rich and mellow, and he could sing in tune. One by one they joined in, and the words eased their worries. Father Alphonsus thought of the fateful trip he had made into Tijuana; he gazed out over the sodden fields of Monaghan and cursed Schnozzle and the Cardinal under his breath. Patrick Pearse, though he wasn’t much of a singer, joined in the chorus. It was the Sacred Heart hymn, and he was conscious that the debt was still on the books:
‘While ages course along
Blest be with loudest song
The Sacred Heart of Jesus
With every heart and tongue.’
They arrived at evening in the village of Pettigoe. Father Alphonsus interrupted the rosary and spoke quietly to the driver. ‘We’ll be making a short stop here,’ he announced as the bus drew into the main street. ‘Paddy John is a gentleman, and a cousin by marriage of Cardinal Maguire himself if I’m not mistaken. He’ll be only too pleased for us to use his conveniences.’
They climbed slowly out of the bus and surveyed the village. A row of pubs and a few shops scattered in a line. Here and there a light burned in a window, but there was no welcome for them in this place. They sniffed the country air with its smell of damp fields and cowshit and turf, and longed for the familiar odour of the ghetto. They stood in the gathering darkness, making feeble jokes about ordering doubles and sandwiches, and longed to be home again.
Patrick Pearse decided he could take it no longer. He knew he had a binding contract. He knew the foolishness of reneging on such a contract, especially as a substantial sum of money had been involved. He knew that since the bother over Maud Gonne he was a marked man, and this his only chance of redemption. They would hound him to the four provinces of Ireland if he made fools of them. He knew he could expect no help if he made a run for it, and that henceforth every man would be his enemy. All these things he knew; but he also knew that five days on Lough Derg would kill him for sure, and in his delirium he fancied taking his chances. He bent down in the mud and, pretending to be busy with his shoelaces, let the others precede him into the bar. He glanced up the main street but not a soul was stirring. He stood in the rain listening, but the only noise breaking the silence was the subdued voices of the penitents within as they queued up for the bogs. He hadn’t as yet been missed, but Father Alphonsus would be doing a discreet security count any minute now. He still had time to redeem the situation. He thought once more about the prospect of a week in the present
company and realized there would be no going back.
There was a yard at the back of the premises. It was ankle-deep in slurry. In one corner there stood some disused farm machinery and a few empty crates. He skulked across through the muck and crouched down behind the rusting implements.
Inside the bar the pilgrims nervously eyed the array of bottles on the shelf behind the proprietor’s head. The pious woman, the same who had been an authority on the holy wells of Ireland, was the first to speak. ‘Would there be any harm, Father,’ she asked, ‘in having a soda water?’
Father Alphonsus made a great play of considering the implications of the question. Did bubbles constitute food, albeit of an unconventional kind? Was soda water really water in another form, merely an enhanced form of the same substance, and therefore permissible? Or had substance and form been changed, by the addition of carbon dioxide, into a new essence? On the other hand, looking at the matter legalistically, the rules allowed water only; if it had been the intention of the Fathers of the Church to allow bubbly water, surely they would have seen fit to include it. On the other hand again, it was clear that the bottling of fizzy water was outside the world view of the ancients when they had laid down the law, so were we within our rights to interpret what they would have thought?
‘Ah, go on, Father,’ she cajoled. ‘Sure it’s only water with a few bubbles in it.’
‘That’s right, Father,’ urged her friend.
But Father Alphonsus was still unmoved. He looked in Paddy John’s direction. ‘I’ll tell you what, ladies, in this matter I’ll defer to the superior knowledge and experience of mine host behind the bar. What do you say yourself, Paddy John? Sure I suppose there’s no harm in it as long as you’re not adding any nutrition to it!’ The proprietor made no move. He had the wary look of a man who had had this problem before. Paddy John had little time for pilgrims in his bar; if it hadn’t been for his distant kinship with the cloth he would have banned them altogether long ago. He went back to his paper without answering the priest’s question. Father Alphonsus, sensing the insult, stopped smiling and strode to the bar. ‘Give these people their soda water, and look smart about it!’ he barked.