Shambles Corner

by Edward Toman

  ‘Never!’ they shouted back at him.

  ‘No surrender!’ he shouted, bringing them once more to their feet.

  Magee emerged from behind the curtains at the back of the tent, struggling with something wrapped in a cheesecloth. He deposited it on the dais beside the preacher and went backstage again. Chastity eased out a minor cadence on the squeeze-box. McCoy waited for the hubbub of excitement to die down before he spoke, and when he spoke his voice was trembling with tension. ‘Be ye not afeared! Fear not and trust in the Lord. Under this blanket is the Virgin of Ballychondom. But this idolatrous work of the devil has no power to harm you here, for this is the house of the Lord. In a moment I’m going to remove that blanket and invite you all to stare into the face of this graven image. If the priests of Rome had their way, this statue would even today be the centre of a great pilgrimage. They say she can move. Wave her arms about. Do an old-tyme waltz for all I know. They say if you pay her enough money she’ll deliver a message to her son, our Blessed Saviour. They say that this lump of wood and plaster can act as an intermediary between man and his redeemer, when we know that there is no need for an intermediary between ourselves and our redeemer and we already have the word of our Saviour here in this book. They say something else too. They say that this little lady has a special message for the Loyalist people! That she’s going to make us all one with the Fenians. That once we’ve looked at her we’re all going to give up the heritage of our fathers and embrace the heresy of Rome!’

  A murmur of uneasiness was spreading throughout the tent at this revelation. But McCoy knew he had their curiosity aroused. He raised his voice once more. ‘But I want to say one thing to you here tonight. I want to say this to you before I take this blanket off. I want to say this to you before you go behind that curtain and have a look at some of the other things we have in store for you. I want to say to the man or woman who does not walk in the way of righteousness, he or she had better not come forward this night to gaze upon the devil’s work. I will not take that man’s money! I will not take that man’s money should he offer me a hundred pounds! Nor a million pounds. Unless you have repented your sins, unless you have accepted Jesus Christ as your saviour, unless you walk in the righteousness of the Lord and not in the way of lewdness or lechery, then do not come forward here tonight. Stay in your seats! If you have sin in your heart, do not approach these terrible things. This is no place for the unclean in spirit!’

  Chastity placed her fingers on the keys of the accordion and blew a terrible chord. Silence had fallen inside the tent. She blew it again, more terrible even than the first. Magee stepped forward from the shadows and held back the flap of the curtain. McCoy bent his head in silent prayer, then slowly lifted it towards the congregation. ‘Step this way, good people of Antrim, if you think you can face it. The wee girl will take your money before you go in. Don’t worry if you haven’t got change, Mister Magee has plenty. Step this way. This way …’ He leaned across and lifted the cheesecloth from the Dancing Madonna.

  A gasp went up from the congregation. The little statue stood forlornly under the harsh spotlight as the vilification began. They jeered and they catcalled, nervously and self-consciously at first, becoming bolder as they ascertained that she had no power to harm them here. They threw the small change from their pockets at her. One or two of the local wags ran up to her and gave her a rub, imitating how they imagined the Fenians behaved. One bowed to kiss her feet in a dumb show of Romanist supplication. Another drew a laugh as he clasped her to him in a fake erotic embrace. At McCoy’s insistent invitation, the rest began to file forward grudgingly, to pay for a glimpse at what delights stood behind the curtain.

  Joe felt those pale eyes searching for his, demanding to be rescued from this indignity.

  He slid down between the seats as the others pushed past him, and with a struggle dropped on to the grass beneath. The reformed drunks seemed as keen as the rest to have a dekko at what was going on, and hadn’t seen him give them the slip. He crouched down on his hunkers at the base of the tent pole. Magee was the one he really worried about, but Magee was up at the front, busy changing five-pound notes. It was dark under the seats, and they would have no reason to go looking there, unless some eejit of a woman had dropped her handbag through the gap, in which case it would be fare thee well, Enniskillen. But within a few minutes the benches above his head had ceased to creak and buckle as the last of them shuffled off towards the other end of the marquee, well out of his way. He curled into a ball on the crushed grass and said a few decades of the rosary while he waited for them to leave.

  He could hear their oohs and aahs as they tried to get their money’s worth. They clustered round the tatty confession box that formed the centrepiece of the exhibition, taking turns to try it out on each other. But before too long their imagination flagged, for they had little understanding of the ritual of the box and their homespun humour lacked any real facility for improvisation. They moved on to the other exhibits, but they too proved meagre enough sport in their turn. There was a collection of rosary beads, a case of moth-eaten scapulars and a pile of assorted miraculous medals; a chalice and paten that had been purloined from some rural chapel; a set of vestments arranged on a tailor’s dummy and highlighted by a spotlight. On a display board they could examine old lithographs of beheadings and disembowellings, some lurid pictures of exotic saints promising indulgences for those who popularized their cult, and the framed confessions of nuns who had been driven from the convent or who had seen the fight. In another case, behind dark glass, was what claimed to be the shrivelled head of Oliver Plunkett, stolen from the cathedral in Drogheda, but this exhibit failed to fool the farmers among them who pronounced it to be the skull of a runt. In a final attempt to captivate and enthral them, beside the flap marked EXIT: POSITIVELY NO RE-ADMISSION, Magee had erected a tableau vivant of Tyndale burned at the stake. Another tailor’s dummy was pressed into service, standing knee-deep in tin foil and faggots while a flickering concealed bulb gave the effect of the fatal flames.

  They wandered round the tent a few times, examining everything in detail the way country people do. They were reluctant to leave, money having changed hands, but eventually the last of them departed. Joe could hear them leaving the field, grumbling to one another. After a while he heard McCoy and Magee getting into the van which was parked at the back, and shortly after that he heard their voices raised, arguing over the money. He heard Chastity butting in, and her wail as she got a belt round the ear for interfering. Occasionally the Belfast man, lying under the van, chained to the axle, uttered a low groan of despair. He waited, still scarcely daring to move, though the ground was damp and the chill of it was beginning to penetrate his bones. The voices stopped. Peace of a sort seemed to have settled down in the van. He gave it another ten minutes before he dared move. The coast seemed clear. Gingerly he began to manoeuvre himself out from under the seating. He poked his head up through the benches and pulled himself up. The lights in the tent were off, but in the gloom he could make out the shape of the Madonna standing silently before him. He rubbed his frozen fingers, crept quietly towards the statue, reached out carefully and tried to lift it. It wouldn’t move. Magee was taking no chances. Round the Virgin’s ankle was fastened a thick chain, the other end of which was securely padlocked to the central tent pole.

  Joe cursed quietly, remembered the company he was in and apologized quickly. There was no way the chain was going to give. He could try picking the lock, but he knew he could be there all night at that game, and maybe no further along in the morning. If he had a hacksaw blade he could eventually get through the chain, but he daren’t go rummaging round in the back of the tent on the offchance that Magee had left anything of that nature lying about. He tried to lift the tent pole; it wouldn’t give an inch. There was only one thing for him to do.

  He reached into his sock and withdrew his penknife. It was army surplus; it had seen better days for its blades had grown blunt over the years. It
was the only weapon he had dared carry with him on to the plateau, and it was reserved for emergencies only. He could try whittling away at the pole – it was a good nine inches thick and would take him all night. He’d bring the whole thing down round his ears into the bargain if he did succeed in hacking his way through it. Have McGuffin hollering out to him from the depths of his misery, demanding to be rescued too. The preacher man and his aide de camp might be heavy sleepers, but even they could hardly be expected to keep snoring when the gospel tent went crashing to the ground.

  He turned his attention back to the statue. He felt the foot. He could get through it in an hour or two with luck. But could he bring himself to desecrate her? Would she let him do it? Would she stand there and let him cut her off above the ankle? Would she cry out, or begin to bleed? He tried the chain one more time, tried heaving the stout pole that fastened it, but knew that it was useless. There was no other solution; he would have to amputate. He said an Act of Contrition and set to work. The wood was hard, as hard as metal, for it had been long seasoned. The ankle was thick and crudely carved. He hacked at it with the rusty blade till his fingers bled, slowly digging a groove above the tight chain.

  The door of the van opened suddenly and voices poured out. He froze. He heard slouching footsteps at the back of the tent and a silhouette loomed grotesquely on the wall. Then he heard McCoy blaspheme and the rush of the piss into the nettles. He didn’t dare move till he heard him kick McGuffin, return to the van and slam the door. Then, with a renewed sense of urgency, he turned again to the business in hand. It took him the better part of two hours, and his knuckles were raw, but the hard black wood yielded eventually. He lifted the statue and snapped off the foot with a crack like a rifle round. The chain that had bound her fell with a clang to the grass.

  Twenty

  The floor of the boat was alive with eels. Joe sat on his hunkers on the fish box gazing at them with a mixture of disgust and fascination. They twisted their black and silver coils towards him, eyeless yet threatening. He had wrapped the Madonna in his coat, and She stood in the prow, Her one good foot protruding from beneath it, as if ready to crush the serpents below Her. The fisherman was taciturn. He neither asked Joe what his business might be, nor volunteered any chat of his own. Down the years, for as long as there had been troubles in the land, he had ferried strangers over the great lake. He had seen enough peculiar packages to know not to ask questions. He stared out silently over the black water, watching the Antrim coast recede into the early-morning shadows and the distant Armagh shore emerge from the fog to the south. His son, a lumpish boy with the features and manners of his father, pulled steadily on the thick oars, hauling the boat through the still waters. When they reached what was, by Joe’s calculation, the middle of the lake, the boy stopped rowing. He leaned over the side and began to heave at a trap hidden deep in the water while his father grunted instructions and abuse. When he had hauled it in he grabbed a handful of snapping eels and threw them on to the floor of the boat with a curse. Joe pulled his legs tight up under him. The boy threw the trap overboard and began to row again.

  For the next hour they circled the lough, keeping just far enough offshore to be hidden in the mist. Joe was uneasy about water at the best of times, and the reputation of the lough was well known to him. It was a place of sudden squalls and storms, of dangerous currents and treacherous undertows. To make matters worse, they seemed to be going round in circles; sometimes the Antrim coast would be dimly at their backs, sometimes it would be the high lands of Tyrone that floated above the mist. Once, he could have sworn, they had headed back to where they started from, for he thought he heard the wide river rushing over the broken weir. Had he been double-crossed? There were enough stories about these people for him to fear the worst; but when the cloud lifted there was no sign of the high bridge and he could no longer feel the undertow of the river pulling on the keel. The boy stopped rowing at a signal from his father. They sat silently on the still water, the ears of the pair of them alert to some noise only they had heard. The lough was a place of danger on even the calmest day, danger from those who used it or who clung to the land near its shore. But it was a risk he had to take. He would gain half a day on Magee if he crossed the water to the Armagh side. There would be constant danger until he reached the city, but if God spared him he could be in the hills to the south in no time at all, safe and sound.

  The eels were moving less now, dying in coils at his feet. Gingerly he eased his cramped legs from under him and stretched a foot towards the floor. A massive blunt head reared at him and he pulled back in terror. The fisherman turned sharply, fearful of any noise that would carry over the water. Joe thought about a smoke, but he knew they would never let him strike a light. The cold and the damp and the pain in his legs were becoming unbearable. He felt he would never walk upright again. Please God let this ordeal end soon! He would be in the city by nightfall, he told himself to keep his spirits up; earlier if he dared risk a lift on the back road. He pictured himself stretching his legs in the Patriot’s. What was sorely needed after his days on the dry plateau was a drink. He began another decade, offering it up for his sins and the sins of the world, and in fervent hope of an early end to his ordeal.

  By rights he should have reported straight to the Palace despite the hour, for it was common knowledge that Schnozzle never slept. But could you blame him for wanting a quick half before he faced the music? Besides, with luck he would find Eugene on his own and he would put to him the scheme that he hoped would keep all parties happy. He leaned his precious bundle carefully against the window in the entry, covered her with his coat and staggered into the bar.

  ‘Can’t you read?’ hissed Eugene, indicating the notice in Irish displayed prominently above the till. ‘There’s no women allowed anywhere on the premises. His own orders!’

  ‘For the love of God Almighty,’ Joe protested, not sure if he was codding or not, ‘you’ll make an exception in this case.’

  ‘It’s not me,’ said Eugene. ‘If I had my way she’d be welcome to stay. But the man upstairs won’t hear of it. A public bar is no place for Irish womanhood.’

  ‘Pour me a pint of stout for fuck’s sake. I need to have a word in your ear.’

  ‘He’ll be down in a minute when he hears we’ve got custom. He’ll be pleased to see you’ve delivered the goods as per contract.’

  ‘Back me up on this, for fuck’s sake. He’ll listen to you. Schnozzle Durante has a prior claim to her ladyship. He’s expecting her back. He made himself very clear! But look at it this way. She’ll stay in Armagh. They’ll build a special altar in the cathedral for her. A place of pilgrimage. With her back where she belongs among her own people, the whole country will soon be back to normal. Think of the crowds, gaelgóiri like himself, coming by the cartload from all over to pay their respects and calling in afterwards for a pint and a packet of crisps in the only Irish-speaking bar in the town.’

  Eugene looked less than convinced. ‘It’s not going to be that simple. He has his heart set on keeping her here. He’s done no good since you left, scouring the Shambles day and night for your return.’

  ‘But she’d be in good hands, he must see that.’

  ‘With every Tom, Dick and Harry bullying her for favours in vulgar English! There’s the fly in the ointment. She’s from the Gaeltacht, right? She answers to Irish only. It’s her natural habitat.’

  ‘Up to a point. But she could fit in anywhere. Anyhow, I’m not trudging her all the way back to fucking Donegal!’

  His attempts to enlist Eugene’s help were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs and the voice of the Patriot inquiring roughly and ungrammatically who was in.

  ‘Jesus,’ groaned Joe. He leapt to his feet, but Eugene had already vaulted the bar, made it to the door and was hoisting the Madonna on to his shoulders when the man himself appeared.