by Edward Toman
‘And a fine job he made of it, I must say! Official guardian of the sacred shrine, and he allows the other fellow to get him drunk as a pig and steal the goods from under our nose! So much for hiring a security man!’
‘It didn’t take the pair of them long to get offsides either.’
‘At least Feely’s got the wit to keep his mouth shut,’ said the Canon. ‘And the boy’s as close as his father. It’s your young one I’m worried about. What’s going to happen to us if they start asking her questions?’
‘Sure Noreen’s only a girl.’
‘Precisely. She’ll spill the beans. She couldn’t tell a lie to save her skin. I might as well tell you, Moran, we’ll be rightly in the soup if they give the girl the third degree.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Cornelius had turned pale and was trembling.
‘The girl will have to be got away from here post haste.’
‘To where, in the name of God?’
‘The nuns down in Caherciveen are our only chance. They’ve a convent full of young ones that have been specially blessed, like herself.’
‘But what’s to stop them following her there?’
‘That’s a chance we’ll have to take. I’ll write to the Mother Superior myself this very moment. The girl can take the letter with her.’
Noreen and her father set off for distant Kerry the next day. Not a moment too soon, for the Lough Swilly bus had just pulled out of Annagary when they passed the Sisters heading west. Two loads of them, sirens blaring, taking up the centre of the road and forcing the old bus on to the boggy verge. Cornelius and Noreen lay on the floor till they were sure the danger had passed, clutching their beads and praying for deliverance. But they passed through the roadblock unchecked and before morning was over they had reached Donegal town. Cornelius allowed himself to breathe a little more easily. It was his first trip into the world since he had been forced up the Yellow Meal Road, and though he still could feel the curiosity of their eyes, and though he knew that he would have to keep moving if he wasn’t to arouse their suspicions, he offered up a decade in thanksgiving and settled back to watch the unfamiliar countryside.
They made Galway by nightfall and found a bed. In the morning, in front of the altar in the cathedral, they said a prayer for the Canon, offering it up before the stained-glass triptych of Ireland’s martyred dead. Another day’s travelling down the western roads took them to Killarney; and by the weekend they had crossed the mountains into Caherciveen and were asking directions for the convent.
The nuns of Ireland have always appreciated the importance of specialization. Since the dawn of Christendom different orders have evolved to answer the needs of those with particular problems – unmarried mothers, fallen women, bona fide orphans, the daughters of the clergy, the dyslexic offspring of the rich. It was unthinkable that one order should poach from another; each knew its place in the scheme of things and chose its postulants accordingly. The Sisters of Mary, Queen of Ireland, were a small exclusive order content to maintain only one house. Originally founded by and for the daughters of the merchant classes, they knew how to take a raw girl at eight and turn her into an Irish lady, fit to sit down with a bishop or sip sherry with a parish priest. When the merchant classes had begun to change and to coarsen, the order had been forced to evolve. It was a time of poverty and piety, and Our Blessed Lady had been spotted in many parts of the south-west. They felt themselves being called by Her to look after those young girls who had been granted the privilege of a miraculous vision. These were no ordinary girls, Mother Superior felt. In a very special way they belonged to the whole people. They needed an apprenticeship in the calm, unworldly surroundings of the convent, isolated from the pressures and temptations of the outside. They were destined for the highest places in society, perhaps the religious life itself, if it was God’s will. Their education would be tailored accordingly. Not for them the harsh regime of the Sisters of Charity, or Mercy, or Poverty. There were no beatings here, no early-morning cold baths to purge the system and banish impure thoughts, no forced drudgery in the kitchen, laundry or farmyard.
‘My girls are just a wee bit special,’ Reverend Mother said to her visitors over the china teacups. They are already pure in mind and body. Our Blessed Lady would not have chosen them otherwise. We try to preserve that innocence in them as long as possible. Holy purity is the greatest gift a woman can possess. My girls will go to meet their Maker with that gift intact. You can go now, Mister Moran, safe in the knowledge that your daughter is in good hands.’
She lifted the handbell, but even before she could tinkle it a postulant was by her side, smiling demurely at Cornelius and silently offering to escort him to the door. Cornelius rose awkwardly and, touching Reverend Mother’s delicate outstretched hand, took his leave without another word.
Noreen stood at the window of her room and watched as her father walked slowly down the driveway towards the gates. In another minute he was out of sight. She felt the hot tears welling up inside her and she fought them back. Maybe he would be able to get down to see her next summer, maybe even the Canon too. Sure the two of them could make a week of it, hire a car somewhere. Take her out for a spin. A year wasn’t that long to wait, she told herself. And the year after that she might be old enough to make the trip north herself. But the tears were streaming down her cheeks now, and she abandoned all attempts to stop them. How could she be brave when she knew she might never see him again? Or the Canon? Even if he was still alive, how could he ever leave Ballychondom and go gallivanting round the roads? She could never find her way back to Donegal either; the country was becoming treacherous again, the roads dangerous and the people restless and unpredictable. What was she but an orphan, abandoned for life among people she didn’t know? She fell to her knees before the statue on the bedside table, and through her sobs implored the Virgin to intercede for her.
There was a soft knock on the door and one of the novices slipped into the room. Gently she took the weeping girl by the arm and led her from the room. They passed along silent corridors smelling of beeswax and fresh flowers, down the wide staircase and out into the sunshine.
The convent was a grey stone building, surrounded by high walls. The only way out was down the long lane, and the gate was hidden from view by a border of tall trees. The postulant led her across the cloistered gardens and towards a doorway among the flowers. It led to the chapel. Together they approached the dark altar and, dipping their fingers in the font, crossed themselves and knelt to pray. She heard faintly from the outside world the chirping of the little birds and the distant sounds of the sea. Noreen buried her face in her hands and let the peace of the surroundings enter her soul.
‘You’ll get on here like a house on fire,’ the postulant whispered after a while. ‘Sure it’s great gas altogether. You’ll stop being homesick when you get to know the nuns.’
Noreen blew her nose and felt better. ‘Come on now and we’ll raid the kitchen,’ said her friend. ‘I’ll say one thing for them, they’re not stingy with the food, not like some of the others, God forgive me. As soon as you’ve had a feed in you you’ll feel a lot better.’
An hour later, feeling bloated but cheerful, she answered the bell and filed back into the chapel with the other silent girls who were to be her new friends. The bell would ring again before nightfall, and it would summon them to prayers once more in the morning. Its quiet tolling would punctuate the rest of her childhood.
Nineteen
Joe knew that he was safe nowhere. Since Schnozzle had taken up residence in Ara Coeli the Sisters were now on the Shambles. They had erected a concrete pillbox at the foot of the cathedral steps and searched everyone going or coming. So far they had left the Patriot Bar alone, though he wouldn’t put it past them to come storming in some night on a raid, spreading their own brand of peace and love liberally round the premises. It was a time, he confided in the wife, to keep your head down, and for the first time in their married life they were in gen
eral agreement. Frank was positioned on the hill above the house from morning till night with instructions to keep an eye out for any sign of movement.
Around noon on the third day he saw Peadar approaching from the direction of the town, panting under the weight of his delivery bike. Frank ran through the fields to intercept him.
‘Tell your da he’s wanted!’ Peadar shouted roughly. Though only a greengrocer, Peadar had his pride. He resented being used as the clergy’s messenger boy, though a lifetime spent on the Shambles had taught him to keep these sentiments to himself. ‘He’s to report to the top of the hill this evening! After the Angelus …’
‘Who wants him?’ Frank asked.
‘Merciful God!’ Peadar said, dropping the bicycle and blessing himself. ‘Since when did you learn to talk?’
‘A while back,’ Frank said. He may have found his tongue again, but he was under orders to give nothing away.
‘Were you cured or what?’
Frank turned away. ‘I’ll see he gets the message,’ he said.
‘While you’re at it,’ Peadar added, peeved at the truculent reception he was getting after his journey up the hill, ‘make sure you tell him there’s someone else after his arse!’
‘Who else was wanting him?’
‘The Patriot is who! He wants a word, urgent! Eugene made a point of mentioning it again. I don’t need to remind your father that that’s a pair of boys you don’t take liberties with.’
‘Maybe he’ll have time to call for a drink when he’s finished his business with Monsignor Schnozzle,’ Frank said.
‘For a boy who’s only started talking you can be right and snarky!’ Peadar said. He ran after Frank to punch his head but the boy was too fast for him. He was over the wall and out of sight before Peadar could land one on him.
A man can’t lie he low like a coward all the days of his life. Even before Frank rushed in to tell him of the double summons, Joe had decided that he would have to act. He was no hero, he told Teresa, but he knew that the task was his and his alone. He would have to rescue the stolen Madonna from McCoy’s obscene clutches, no matter how high the cost.
As the Angelus bell echoed over the city, Joe intoned to himself the familiar words and looked down through the window of the Palace on the Shambles below. He had never seen it from this perspective. It looked smaller than he could have imagined it, a huddle of mean houses scattered round an open space. From this height you could see the straggling edge of the town and the grey hills stretching away on all sides in the distance. It was a little place for so much hatred, he thought. And hatred is what keeps us going. Hatred is the one reality of this place, an emotion stronger and more addictive and more exciting than any other. Say that in the Patriot Bar and they’d be on to you for having no politics, or accusing you of taking the wrong line. We all took the wrong line a long time ago, he thought, when we let ourselves get started on this merry-go-round.
Schnozzle for the moment seemed more interested in Frank and his miraculous recovery. He had already asked him to recite the Ten Commandments, the Apostles Creed and four sins crying out to the Holy Ghost for vengeance. But though he was answering well, Joe knew he wasn’t off the hook. His turn was coming.
‘What arrangements have you made for the boy now that it seems your prayers have been answered?’ Schnozzle asked, suddenly turning from Frank and confronting Joe.
‘With all respect, Father, I can hardly send him back to the Brothers.’
‘You’ll send him here then! There’s plenty of work in the kitchen. Hard work is what this lad needs. From what I hear, life for the pair of you has been one long party! Well, the party’s over.’
‘Whatever you say, Father.’
‘Every morning at the back door. Do you understand me, boy! Six o’clock sharp! No excuses. If there’s time after you’ve done your chores you can sit in the elementary class with the seminary boys. Now wait outside. I want to talk to your father in private!’
‘I’m not cut out for England,’ Joe pleaded. He had seen the photographs of the Canon, taken after the third degree, and knew that if he escaped with his life it would only be into excommunication and banishment. ‘Give me two months, that’s all I ask! I’ll rescue Her personally and bring Her back to Ara Coeli.’
‘Talk sense, man. Even Sister Immaculata has conceded that a rescue bid is out of the question. The Silent Madonna is gone forever. Captured into slavery. Her message thrown back in her face. She will never come back.’
‘I’m going to try! At least allow me that chance! I’m the one who’s responsible for what happened.’
‘No one could follow McCoy where he’s gone.’
‘I will. I have a debt to pay.’
‘You’ll pay with your life if you make a slip.’
‘I’ll take that chance.’
Schnozzle remained silent for a moment, contemplating Joe’s offer. Perhaps it would work. One man coming forward, willing to sacrifice all, to redeem the honour of his people in the eyes of heaven. It was this or nothing. If he didn’t let him go it might be generations before Our Blessed Lady would deign to visit these shores again. He looked hard into Joe’s eyes, searching for any trace of treachery, but read there instead the determination in his soul. He nodded agreement. ‘Your last chance!’
‘If anything goes wrong …’ Joe said.
‘I’ve told you the boy will be looked after.’
‘I’ll need the sacraments.’
‘There will be no impediment.’ Schnozzle took up his pen and wrote a brief note on the Palace headed paper. Take that to the duty confessor. This trip will be your penance.’
‘God bless you, Father.’
‘Bring Her back and we’ll wipe the slate clean.’
They were escorted off the premises an hour later and deposited in the middle of the Shambles.
‘We’d better face the Patriot,’ Joe said. ‘I think we could both do with a little something after our ordeal.’
The bar was quiet. The Tyrone man had given up alcohol for the duration of the emergency, swearing that not another drop would pass his lips till the Madonna was restored. Only Peadar was there; he had boarded up for the day and sat in the corner nursing the remnants of a pint. Over the premises there hung the unmistakable smell of despair.
‘Give us a pint for the love of mike!’ Joe said, spitting on the floor for emphasis. ‘It’s like a wake without a corpse in here.’
The Patriot himself was behind the bar, but tonight his was a non-speaking role. Eugene did the talking. He came straight to the point.
‘The Patriot has taken this business badly. Very badly indeed.’
‘I can see that,’ Joe said.
‘Our Blessed Lady appears in an Irish-speaking area. That’s something very close to the Patriot’s heart as you know …’
‘… as I know.’
‘And you’re too pissed to keep an eye on her.’
‘Now be fair! You haven’t heard the whole story!’
But the Patriot had heard enough. He suddenly brought his fist down on the bar with such vehemence that the pyramid of glasses shattered to the floor.
‘What the Patriot means,’ Eugene went on, ‘is that if you don’t get her back here, delivered personally into his hands for safe keeping, you’re a dead man.’
‘Do you know what?’ Joe told him. ‘I’ll not even stay for that drink. I’m on my way already!’
He returned home and set about his preparations carefully. McCoy was a slippery customer. Somewhere up on the plateau, the high lands facing Scotland, he would be lying low, for the moment safe from any maverick mick who might want to mount a rescue attempt. The Protestant heartland was unassailable. No Catholic had ever gone alone on to the plateau, and he knew the dangers that lay ahead of him. He let a beard grow where none had ever been before, and he trimmed it daily at the minor above the mantelpiece while Teresa derided him. ‘Is that supposed to make you look less like a Fenian?’ she asked. But he was pleased wi
th the beard. It gave him an exotic look, the look of someone who had been away, in England or further afield. Or maybe in jail. Someone who had seen things and done things that others would never understand. Doing time was no disgrace, but though they would be curious their curiosity would be tinged with caution. From his clothes he removed the labels that might indicate their origins with the Catholic tick man, and from round his neck he removed the scapulars and miraculous medals that he had sworn to his mother he would wear to his deathbed. He unpinned the sodality badge from his vest and the seventy days’ indulgence from his longjohns and solemnly handed them to Frank.
‘God knows what company I’ll be forced to keep,’ he told the boy, ‘or in what strange beds I’ll be made to sleep before this thing is finished.’
At the end of a fortnight he knew he was as ready as he’d ever be. They knelt together and said the rosary at midnight, all fifteen decades, the joyful, the sorrowful and the glorious mysteries, each of them offering up their allocated quota for their own special intentions. Then he rose, lifted an ashplant from behind the door and his knapsack from the kitchen, shook his wife by the hand and took his leave. It was still dark outside. He and Frank walked the long, familiar, winding road into the town in silence. At the Shambles they stopped. There were tears in the boy’s eyes at their parting. Joe could see how much he wanted to go with him, to share this danger the way they had shared so much in the past. But this was something he could only do alone.
‘I’ll be back in no time,’ he said, patting Frank on the head and attempting a laugh. ‘Mission accomplished.’
‘At least take this,’ Frank said. He reached under his jersey and unpinned the medal that Father Alphonsus had given to him. ‘You can’t go up there without someone to protect you.’
The little Virgin of Chihuahua,’ Joe said, attempting a laugh. ‘I’ll take Her with me, there’s a promise.’
Frank tried to speak but only tears, not words, would come. Would he ever see his father alive again?