Shambles Corner

by Edward Toman

  For her heart in his grave is lying.’

  The bold Robert Emmet,’ said the Canon when he had finished and they had all clapped. ‘A great man and a great song.’

  ‘Now one yourself, Father,’ said Joe obsequiously. Canon Tom cleared his throat and silence was called for. His party piece long ago in the salons of Dublin had been ‘The Stuttering Lovers’; it could always be relied on to bring the house down. And though it was many a Christmas since he had performed it, he was word perfect yet.

  ‘He kissed her once and he kissed her twice

  And he kissed her three times o’er

  Twas fine to be kissing a bonny wee lass

  That’s never been kissed before …’

  The children were huddled on a bench at the window. Noreen began to giggle, and her infectious laughter spread to Frank and then even to the severe-faced Chastity. And despite Joe shouting at them for hush, and McCoy threatening to break every bone in her body if she didn’t put a sock in it, they got worse and worse till the Canon was forced to abandon the stuttering lovers in a fit of pique.

  ‘Send those children up the stairs,’ he ordered Cornelius. ‘That Noreen one is getting far too old-fashioned for her own good if you want my opinion.’

  ‘Frank’s all right where he is,’ said his father. ‘He’ll give us “The Harp That Once” in a minute.’

  ‘And then maybe Mr McCoy would oblige us with a few verses, if he has no objection,’ Cornelius said.

  ‘I might be persuaded,’ he said with a laugh. He turned to Cornelius. ‘You’re a widower yourself, I take it?’

  Cornelius nodded. He didn’t trust himself with words on a night like this.

  ‘I’ll tell you a laugh,’ said McCoy. ‘I have this verger in our little chapel back home. A real ignorant bucko, I might as well tell you. Do you know what he says to me the other day? “Pastor McCoy,” he says, “you should think about getting married again. You should show an example to the people. A good woman’s your only man!”’

  They roared with laughter. Even the girls, halfway up the stairs, stopped to join in the general merriment.

  ‘“A good woman’s your only man,”’ repeated McCoy. ‘Isn’t that a good one! I need hardly tell you that the bucko who said it comes from Portadown!’

  They laughed again. The bottle passed from hand to hand. Joe was aware that he should be quizzing McCoy about the nature of his business among them, but somehow the moment for that seemed to have passed. What harm could he do anyhow? he asked himself. The church was safely locked. The statue of the Madonna was safe; warm as toast behind the plastic screen, all ready for the official opening. McCoy could nose round to his heart’s content, he told himself, there was no harm he could do.

  Glad to be released, the girls sat laughing at the top of the stairs. We’ll leave them to it,’ Noreen said, taking her new friend by the hand and leading her into her room. ‘Only men would be interested in codology like that. I’m surprised Frank didn’t try to wriggle out of it too.’

  The girls had established an instant rapport. As the snow spread its mantle gently over the rocks, transforming everything for this one night, this last night, of peace, some unique alchemy was at work. And although Chastity was a few years Noreen’s senior, and though they had lived lives as far apart as it was possible to imagine, from the beginning there was no shyness between them. Before an hour had passed they seemed as inseparable as sisters, as familiar with each other’s fantasies as if they had known each other all their lives. The bigger girl looked in amazement at Noreen’s room. She jumped on the bed till Noreen squealed at her to stop if she didn’t want her da up. She examined, at first with distaste, then with interest, the statues on the altar in the corner of the room – the Child of Prague and the souvenirs from Lourdes that Sharkey had sold them when her mother was dying. Noreen had only a few toys, but they were more than Chastity had seen in a lifetime. Eagerly she fingered each of the rag dolls. She dropped to her knees and examined with curiosity the contents of the little house that Páidi Mhici Óig had made from cardboard. Together they pored over the battered children’s encyclopaedia; they rummaged through the tallboy and dressed up in the hand-me-downs they found in the drawers; they made a house with the bedclothes; it became a cave, a hut, a castle, a ship. Under the blankets they snuggled, arms round each other, while from below came the muffled voices of the menfolk.

  ‘Would you listen to my da trying to sing?’ Chastity giggled. Through the floorboards came the strains of The Protestant Boys’.

  ‘“O the Protestant Boys are loyal and true …”’

  ‘They are my arse says Brian Boru …’ Joe broke in raucously.

  Above the ensuing uproar they could hear Cornelius shouting for a bit of order, urging McCoy to try again and pay no attention to your man, he’d had a bit too much to drink. But it was Joe’s voice they heard next, confidently embarking on ‘The Boys of the Old Brigade’. There was the sound of wood splintering, and they laughed as they heard the Canon (‘on his high horse, would you listen to him?’ said Noreen) ordering them to sit down and not go breaking up the party. Then Cornelius, perhaps mindful of the furniture, was calming the proceedings with a love song. ‘God it’s my da now,’ Noreen giggled, ‘and would you listen to what he’s trying to sing. He’ll never hit that top note in a million years.’

  ‘“I’ll take you home again, Kathleen,”’ he warbled. She could picture him singing it, eyes tight closed and the tears running down his face. But the others rallied to him when the high octave loomed, and they soared up to it in unison:

  ‘And when the fields are fresh and green …

  I will take you to your home again, Kathleen …’

  So pleased were they with themselves that they sang it through once again. Joe was declaring himself game for a third rendition when Frank was discovered to have fallen asleep. McCoy wanted him wakened to sing ‘The Harp That Once’, which he was loudly proclaiming was a song both sides of the house could sing without offence, but the Canon ordered the boy put to bed, and he was duly passed over the heads of the company and deposited in the settle bed behind the fire, where he took no further part in the proceedings.

  As the bottles emptied and they grew more mellow, they crooned their way through the repertory, surprising each other by how many they knew. McCoy’s bass steadied the bottom line, and if he didn’t know the words he could hold the tune while the others improvised. They tried ‘The Lark in the Clear Air’, managing to stay in tune. They tried ‘Oft in the Stilly Night’, reverentially and with much emotion. They had a go at ‘My Lagan Love’ but abandoned the attempt after a few exploratory bars. ‘The Garden Where the Praties Grow’ offered no insurmountable difficulties, nor did ‘The Boys from the County Armagh’ or ‘Galway Bay’.

  ‘Give us “The Sash”!’ Joe would shout at intervals.

  ‘Give us it yourself!’ McCoy would roar back at him, and upstairs the two girls would parody them.

  ‘They’ll be on to Christmas carols next,’ said Noreen.

  ‘My da won’t let us sing Christmas carols, he says they’re unchristian.’

  ‘Your da says more than his prayers, if you ask me.’

  ‘“Give us ‘The Sash’!”’ she giggled.

  ‘“Give us it yourself!”’ said Noreen. Limbs entwined they fell asleep on the bed above, while the proceedings continued below.

  Before midnight the new chapel bell began to peal. Sharkey had found it for them in an abandoned National School, and Joe had rigged it up to the back wall of the church. The native speakers had been given the job of ringing it to summon the new pilgrims to the services. It sounded now for the first time, soft and unfamiliar, distorted by the swirling snow. Noreen woke, listened. She nudged her friend awake. Chastity was suddenly alert, tense, defensive. They heard the sound of footsteps crunching below the window, and the Canon grumbling downstairs as he stirred himself to attend to his duties.

  ‘They’re going to midnight Mass,’ she
whispered.

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘Páidi Mhici Óig’s people. The people from over the hills. Country people. There’s still a few of them about. Come on and we’ll go. It’ll be great.’

  ‘Me! I couldn’t go near a Roman Catholic chapel!’ Chastity recoiled in genuine horror. ‘My da would kill me if I set foot in one of those places.’

  ‘Your da will never know. They’ll be that far gone downstairs.’

  ‘But that priest will see me. He’ll tell on me.’

  The Canon’s as blind as a bat, especially when he’s half cut.’

  ‘But it’s a sinful obscene blasphemy in the eyes of the Lord!’ wailed Chastity.

  ‘It’s no such thing,’ said Noreen. ‘It’s only Mass.’

  ‘Well, just don’t you ever let it slip out that I went with you, that’s all I can say,’ Chastity added, dubiously.

  They crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. From the parlour they could hear the men’s voices, slurred and amicable, assuring each other that they were decent men. They closed the back door quietly behind them on ‘Danny Boy’, in ragged three-part harmony.

  Chastity sat in the chapel like one in a dream, taking in the cold, candlelit interior, the small coughing congregation, the silent crib, the Canon, hastily dressed in green and gold, enacting the strange ritual at the glittering altar. For the first time she smelt the sweet smell of incense and heard the strange anthems in Latin and Greek and Irish. Before the Mass was finished, with her new friend at her side, she approached the altar rails with the rest of the congregation and received, trembling, the light melting host placed on her tongue by Canon Tom.

  Afterwards they knelt in the snow before the Silent Madonna. Chastity stared up into her impassive face. She was thinking of her mother. She had taught her to pray when she was a baby, and though she no longer understood the words, it was in Spanish that she addressed the Madonna, asking for her one great wish and for her father’s intentions. Noreen looked up at the familiar face; maybe it was only the condensation behind the perspex, but the Madonna looked troubled, and she thought she saw a tear trickle down her cheek. She grew suddenly afraid, and, taking Chastity by the hand, she fled with her from the empty graveyard and across the wasteland towards the lights of home.

  They slipped in the back door and up the stairs. The Canon was back before them, and they could hear him grumbling about something to himself above the snores of Joe and Cornelius. The voices grew fainter and less frequent, till only McCoy’s rumblings were heard alone. The fire burned down slowly. The girls fell asleep. Noreen dreamed that she saw the face of the Madonna, calling to her, her arms outstretched in fear. She woke with a start. The end of the bed where her friend had been was empty, and she thought she heard rough voices whispering in the hall. She fell back into a fitful sleep, hearing somewhere the rasp of a starting handle and an engine coughing into life. Again in her dream the Madonna was calling to her, but her limbs were heavy and she was powerless to help. The dream faded slowly, and she slept again like a child.

  The snow fell gently over the whole countryside. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the trees and hills, falling softly on the Bog of Allen and falling softly on the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling on every part of the lonely churchyard where Noreen’s mother lay. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the broken stone wall and the barren heather. It fell faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

  Seventeen

  Garda O’Malley threw another shovelful of coke on the stove and, leaning back in the sergeant’s chair, let his thoughts turn once more to women. It was a topic rarely far from his mind. No woman in particular, but the gender in general. He was neither stepping out nor courting, and didn’t intend doing so if he could help it, but that didn’t stop him thinking about them. Women were a treacherous, no-go area as far as Guard O’Malley was concerned: a source of temptation and an occasion of sin, as often as not.

  The sergeant had gone home long ago, leaving him in charge of the shop. Christmas Day was a time for the bosom of the family, but O’Malley was not that tempted by what he knew of family life. The small station with its already familiar routines suited him better. All his life he had wanted to be a garda. Some boys dream of prowess on the football field, or success on the foreign missions, or money from America; O’Malley dreamed only of the blue uniform and the peaked cap. It was a modest dream for one who had been reared in the force; as a schoolboy he knew only the life of the station, its routine, its jargon, its smell of strong tobacco. He had never been fooled by the overt friendliness of the locals as he passed down the street with his father; he knew they could hardly wait to be out of earshot to start their malicious whispering.

  He moved across to the door and surveyed once more the deserted main street. Not a sinner moving. A strand of fairy lights, Pettigoc’s only concession to the festive season, winked hesitantly from the window of the General Stores. It was still dark, but the dawn wasn’t far behind. He’d finish his paperwork and lock up the shop. Maybe brew a cup of tea before he went back to his digs.

  His reverie was broken by the sound of a car backfiring. He went to the window and carefully peered out. A van with one headlight was lumbering up the street. There’s a boy unsure of where he’s going, he thought, as the van slowed down below the fingerpost at the head of the town. Defective front light, tyres as bald as a coot in all probability. He buttoned his tunic and reached for his helmet. I’ll nail that bucko this very minute; a nice little Christmas present for him. He was about to kick-start the motor-bike when he thought he heard a woman’s cry. A high voice calling for help. He started the bike with a roar that shook the silent streets. Some bitch in the back seat, he thought, squealing for your man to stop but loving every minute of it. At the sound of the motorbike the van took off. O’Malley gave chase. It was heading for the border, but he could catch them well before that. The screams grew louder. Dirty bastard; some big country girl, her dress hiked up around her big thick thighs, her knickers on the floor; your man grabbing himself a handful of sticky hair. He’d seen plenty of that sort of thing since he came to Donegal; women up against the walls with old fellas halfway up them, caught like rabbits in the glare of the headlights. He’d heard their obscenity too; boys in passing cars rolling down the windows to shout lewd encouragement. Give her six inches! What about the other six? Men in the back seats of cars, their hairy backsides suddenly exposed, half pleased to be caught on the job. Red-haired women, their brassieres unhooked, smoking cigarettes, not giving a fuck. Do you smoke afterwards? I don’t know I never looked. All the smut of the schoolyard come to life in the back lanes of the countryside. A crowd of dirty scuts, would give you a dose right and handy; I wouldn’t put my prick near one of them, thought O’Malley.

  The van backfired again and lost power. He had them now all right. He’d have them out on the side of the road, see what class of hard-on your man has when he’s standing bollock naked in the sleet with my torch on his privates. Or herself; I’ll get an eyeful of tit at the very least, maybe more. She’ll not have time to pull her drawers up yet. We’ll see how she likes twelve inches of Garda Síochána standard issue up her!

  But as he drew nearer a sixth sense, the one he had inherited from his father and grandfather, told him that this might not be what it seemed. There was something about the van that wasn’t quite right. He slowed the bike a bit. Jesus, he thought, a frigging ice-cream van! In this weather. This was no local coming home late from a dance. Something was distinctly odd about the whole set-up. Stop me and buy one; no thank you! Then he noticed the statue, lying on its back and tied firmly to the roofrack. He shone his torch after it. Christ Almighty, he could have sworn he saw the frigging thing move. He reached inside his tunic and felt for his revolver. He was getting out of his depth here, he told himself. This looked like clerical business; he wasn’t getting m
ixed up in anything to do with the clergy or the Little Sisters, thank you all the same.

  Whoever was driving was revving away on the gearbox, trying to get the van to start. Great clouds of acrid smoke belched out of the exhaust pipe. O’Malley hung back. He could put a few rounds through the rear window, but natural caution asserted itself. The border was only a hundred yards ahead. Who could say what dark unknown forces might be lying in wait beyond it, even in this holy season of good will to all men. On the other hand he could approach the ice-cream van all civil, ask them if they wanted any help.

  And maybe get an Armalite up the arse for being Santa Claus!

  His dilemma was suddenly solved. The van rasped into gear and stuttered down the hill. He let it go. He heard the engine fail again, pick up and then whine off into the night. Just as they crossed the border he heard the cry again. He mounted the bike and rode slowly back to the station. The teapot was still warm on the stove and the tea was black and strong, the way his father used to take it. He turned again to his daydreams of women. He wouldn’t be bothering the sergeant with a report.

  Eighteen

  Cornelius panicked in earnest when he heard that the Sisters were on their way. ‘Why can’t they leave us alone?’ he wailed. ‘There’s nothing left for them here.’ He surveyed what remained of the dream – the deserted car park, already filling with drifting sand, the hastily abandoned bungalows of the émigrés, the broken arch that should have welcomed the pilgrims.

  ‘I can tell you precisely why they’ll be bothering us,’ said the Canon grimly. ‘They hate to think they’ve been made fools of. They’ll want their pound of flesh.’

  ‘It wasn’t our fault.’ Cornelius was near to tears.

  Who gave the fucker a bed for the night? Wined him and dined him? Gave him the run of the house? How’s that going to look when it comes out?’

  ‘I’m blaming everything on Feely. He was supposed to be on guard.’