Leaving Ardglass

by William King

  ‘The exemplary Irishman’s money, that’s why.’ I mimic the president’s pompous accent: ‘“Yes, and very generous to All Saints.”’

  ‘I hope it goes well for you in Rome.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll drop you a line.’

  ‘Do. By then I should be in the wigwam with my squaw.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Siobhán and myself are going to hit New York for the summer. We’ll be married by this time next year. With a B. A., I’ll do the diploma and get a teaching job. No bother nowadays – schools seem to be partial to spoiled priests.’

  That evening, one of the deacons has organized a Gaelic football match between Junior and Senior House, but I’m in no mood for football and, instead, I kneel at the back of the oratory, the shouts reaching me through an open window. Meehan’s leaving, more than any of the others, is shaking my resolve to give up everything for the imperishable prize. And for a week or so, I return to the same silent place to be tossed around in a sea of indecision.

  The spiritual director sighs heavily, tosses the front wings of his cape over his shoulders, and tells me that some students worry too much and forget that God always gives us the grace to meet every situation in life. ‘It is understandable that your friend’s leaving would upset you, Thomas. Mr Meehan discovered he didn’t have the call, but I’m convinced God is calling you. So go off to Rome and enjoy yourself.’ He regales me with stories of his student days there, and then shows me to the door.

  ‘God bless, Thomas. You’ll do very well in Rome.’

  ‘Thanks, Father.’

  I return to my room, persuading some dissatisfied questioner within that the spiritual director ought to know: he has a lot of experience.

  17

  AT THE IRISH COLLEGE, I have a ringside view of the Vatican Council. Each morning on our sunny path to lectures at the pontifical university, Propaganda Fide, we watch a winding river of purple flowing down to the front of the college: bishops gathering folds about their knees as they climb into buses on their way to St Peter’s. Priests doing postgraduate studies form a constant stream to the college every evening: they take notes and the tapping of their typewriters continues late into the night as they work on speeches for the bishops. They loiter around the marble corridors until a Cardinal or an archbishop swishes by on his way to the chapel or refectory. Over the years they, in turn, become monsignors and bishops, or at least get the best parish in the diocese. And, to be perfectly honest, from now on, my dream of digging wells in Uganda gets lost in the heady smell of episcopal brocade, and I take a keen interest at the mealtime conversations about students and priests who have managed to ingratiate themselves with members of the Curia.

  After supper one evening, a young priest carrying a sheaf of notes is idling in the ground corridor. He stops and asks me my name.

  ‘Tom Galvin, Father.’

  ‘What diocese are you from?’

  I tell him.

  ‘You should have come to Dublin. More prospects.’

  He imparts a secret. ‘Never forget, Tom, that when a man is sent to Rome to study, his bishop has him in mind for higher things. We’re the Coldstream Guards. None of us here are pack animals. We’d be wasted in a parish or on the missions.’ He throws a shifty glance down the hallway and smiles: ‘That’s for the pass B. A. men.’

  After ordination, he was appointed to a sprawling parish in Dublin. ‘But, with the help of a monsignor, I made sure I wouldn’t spend my life sipping tea and praising brown bread with old ladies after the Legion of Mary meeting. But you’ll never make the top table, Tom, if you haven’t someone to speak up for you. By the time I complete my doctorate, I’ll make sure I’m earmarked for a diocese.’ The word in my ear, he conveys with a coded wink, and when he aligns the sheaf of notes on the window ledge, the corridor echoes with a hollow sound.

  ‘Let’s go for a stroll.’ He indicates the sunny courtyard. As we stroll down the loggia, past the monument that holds the heart of Daniel O’Connell, the Liberator of Catholic Emancipation, he imparts more of the commandments that ensure a successful career in the Church. ‘Get to know the bishops while you’re here; you have a glorious opportunity now. And most of all – the Nuncio – whenever he visits the college.’ He grins: ‘Some of these fellows are little runts, with egos as big as St Peter’s. And by the way, Tom, theologians are ten a penny, but bishops hold all the aces, and bishops will be remembered long after theologians are dead and buried. Find one before you go back to Ireland.’ Another option, he informs me, is a diplomatic post in the Vatican. ‘But if you go down that road, make sure you have a grasp of at least four or five languages.’ He holds up his hand, fingers splayed.

  Priests visiting Rome stay in the college and worry about the rumours: the Vatican Council will be the ruination of the Church they know and love. One man, on a short break from his country parish in Mayo, shares his concerns at the dinner table: women going to Mass without a headdress, and worse – American nuns coming to Knock, wearing them scanty blouses; sure, to tell the truth, you can see… well – most disconcerting. The next Pope might even abolish celibacy. He sighs, and, mopping his forehead, is careful not to disturb his brown wig. ‘Haven’t we enough on our plates besides trying to humour a woman?’

  On my way back from lectures one sweltering day in October, I notice a couple of priests waylay a bishop on the via Labacana. I walk right by them, but they are too deep in conversation to notice me. One of the priests holds his hat behind him. ‘Clery & Co.’ shows in the silk lining. ‘What’s all this aggiornamento, My Lord?’ His head is inclined towards the bishop. ‘And this laity involvement?’

  The bishop places a hand on the priest’s shoulder. ‘No changes, Father; most certainly not in my diocese. Don’t disturb yourself.’ He smiles like a teacher to a dull pupil: ‘And remember Ecclesiastes: nothing new under the sun.’

  Four years of lectures at Propaganda Fide, and sultry evenings strolling beneath the palm trees, and by the red and white-flowering bougainvillea, debating transubstantiation, the principle of double effect, and other theological questions soon come to an end. Then one glorious Pentecost, while the bells of Rome are ringing out, twenty-six of us from different dioceses throughout Ireland make our way silently across the via di San Giovanni to the Lateran Basilica for ordination. Old women in black stand and bless themselves.

  Two days later, I find myself in the Gresham Hotel in Dublin thanking everyone who has helped me to become a priest. The bishop sits beside me in his violet cloak and pectoral cross. M.J. and a heavily expectant Grace with their two children, Elizabeth and Margot, also share the top table. Silent and stolid as ever, my mother in a grey dress and hat keeps a peeled eye on Gerry, who is reaching for a glass each time the wine waiter goes past.

  We haven’t been together as a family since my father’s funeral; now we are sprinkled around the room: the twins with their wives and children from Chicago, the Leeds gang as Grace calls them, Eddie from Sligo. And before me, a sea of faces, each a part of the jigsaw of my life. While I am thanking everyone who helped me over the years of my training, Bonnie in a strawberry dress and black hat catches my attention and makes a thumbs-up sign. Earlier she had introduced me to her companion – a tall swarthy man known as The Body. Outside The Highway one night he had stood back-to-back with his three brothers and taken on about seven or eight Connemara men, sending them hurling across the footpath.

  The parish priest of Ardglass speaks immediately after the bishop. ‘The priesthood is the highest calling on this earth,’ he intones with his head at a slant and one hand inside the front of his tonsure jacket. ‘Changing bread into the body and blood of Christ is only granted to the Lord’s anointed – specially chosen men. Not even kings or potentates are granted that privilege.’ His voice rises a few decibels when he adds: ‘Father Thomas, if I were to meet you and an angel on the road, I would salute you first and then the angel.’ He raises his glass: ‘Ad multos annos, Father Thomas.’ Some o
f M.J.’s company men have to be nudged to stand for the toast.

  At the table now littered with crumpled napkins, wine-stained glasses and the scattered fragments of cake, the bishop chats with M.J. over coffee. He would like to see a wider range of facilities for Irishmen on the building sites. He looks at M.J. ‘Centres such as the London clubs where men can sit and read The Guardian,’ he says as he massages his gold ring.

  Later, while the bishop is making a brave effort to carry on a conversation with my mother about hay and the price of cattle and how the Common Market will be a great blessing to farmers, M.J. turns to me and, out of earshot of the bishop, speaks above a whisper: ‘Do you think we should open a London club on the High Road?’

  ‘Very risky. You’d have Horse Muldoon and Sputnik and Garryowen in there all day reading The Guardian and the Wall Street Journal.’

  ‘The Crown might as well close its doors.’

  After the meal, I mix with the guests, give a first blessing to neighbours from Ardglass and the dining-room staff, who form a line and get down on their knees, and, according to custom, kiss the anointed hands of the newly ordained.

  Bonnie sidles up as I’m brushing ice-cream off my soutane left by a niece: ‘I’d do that for you, but the bishop mightn’t approve. Dab it in water. Here’s a handkerchief.’

  ‘Good of you to come, Bonnie.’ I follow her instructions.

  ‘You haven’t changed a day.’

  ‘A holy young priest shouldn’t lie.’

  ‘Let’s move out of here.’ I indicate the foyer where a cool breeze is drifting in from O’Connell Street. American tourists are crowding around the reception area, porters are hauling suitcases and stacking them in front of the criss-cross gates of the lift. We find two lounge chairs.

  ‘Right,’ I say, ‘a full account on how things are in London.’ A mistake. She launches into a tirade against M.J.: the times, when things were not going right for him and he wanted a break, she tagged along to watch Archie Moore beating the living daylights out of some poor fellow. And M.J., perfectly at home with the baying pack in hats and gabardines, sat there simulating hooks and uppercuts. When he knew no one in London, and his pockets were empty, she fed him with chickens or steaks from The Imperial. ‘And more than that, but you’re a priest now.’

  ‘I am so glad that you came today.’

  ‘I promised. You remember the night at The Highway when I said “No matter what happens, Galvin, we’ll remain friends.”’

  The bishop, M.J. and his friend Donaghy, a member of Dáil Éireann, are approaching us. We stand to attention. A broad smile spreads across the bishop’s face. ‘The future of the Church. Father Galvin, you’ve joined the greatest body of men on this earth.’

  ‘The very best,’ Donaghy adds, his roving eye taking in Bonnie’s figure.

  ‘Bonnie Doyle, My Lord. Bonnie lives in London,’ I say.

  He extends his hand, palm downwards so that she will kiss his ring.

  ‘And you’ve come all this way for Father Galvin’s reception,’ he says when she rises. ‘Yes, My Lord.’ She is ready to exchange pleasantries, but he ignores her, and is more interested in sharing his good news with me.

  ‘We’re extending the seminary, Father Thomas. I’ve just been telling M.J. and Mr Donaghy. A whole new wing. Twenty-eight ordinations this year. Thank God, a wonderful harvest. The diocese is expanding, gentlemen,’ he assures us.

  ‘Convince this man, My Lord,’ says Donaghy, winking at me, and nodding towards M.J., ‘to come back and help with the expansion in this city.’

  The bishop’s eyes form into slits when he laughs: ‘Your powers of persuasion are much more effective than mine, Mr Donaghy.’ He touches my elbow: ‘I want a word with Father Thomas before I go. You’ll excuse us.’

  We stroll into the slanting sun; the others fall back. In front of the hotel, the bishop’s driver is standing by a gleaming black Chrysler. ‘You will be returning to Rome in September, Thomas, for postgraduate studies,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you, My Lord.’

  ‘I am granting you three years to complete a doctorate at Propaganda Fide.’

  He gathers the trailing cloak about him and hastens across the wide footpath where his driver is holding open the car door. As he makes to step in, M.J. comes rushing out of the hotel and calls him; Donaghy stays behind chatting to Bonnie.

  ‘My Lord,’ says M.J., putting an envelope into the bishop’s hand: ‘something to help you with the seminary extension.’

  ‘Oh,’ says the bishop, glancing at the envelope, ‘but you’ve been so generous already, Mr Galvin. Thank you.’

  A little woman with a face like a withered orange hobbles over, does a half-genuflection and kisses the bishop’s ring, and then as quickly shuffles off again, reciting a string of prayers, and disappears up a side street.

  The dance afterwards is M.J.’s idea: ‘It’s a big day for you.’ He had phoned me in Rome the previous Christmas and announced his plan for holding a reception in The Gresham. ‘Why not? We’re as good as the best of them now, and we can afford it.’

  ‘I don’t know about the dance. Is that a bit new in Ireland?’

  ‘The family don’t meet much. Why not?’

  ‘OK then.’

  I return to the hall and stand for a while at the door: the band is playing Glenn Miller’s ‘In the Mood’; couples are dancing, among them Donaghy and Bonnie in perfect harmony with the music as they quickstep on the polished maple. They are laughing, and at each corner of the ballroom or whenever they have space, he gives her a one-handed twirl and then, with a flourish, sweeps her along again. Tall and in a shiny blue suit that sets off his red hair, he winks over her shoulder at whomever catches his eye; the London crowd think he is great gas.

  When the set is finished, he comes over to me and speaks into my ear while at the same time putting an envelope into my hand: ‘A small gift, Father Tommy, and congratulations. You know I gave serious thought to the priesthood. The missions.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I did. To tell you the truth, I’d have gone through with it, but,’ he is winking again, ‘too fond of the women, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ah, well.’

  ‘But I regard what I’m doing now – public life – to be close enough.’

  ‘You’re right there. Thanks for the gift, Sylvester.’

  ‘Not at all, Father Tommy.’

  A woman with bangles comes up to congratulate me, and claims Donaghy for the next dance.

  My mother sits at a side table. Even on this day, the set of life’s disappointments is on her face. Her children all round her – virtual strangers to me through poverty and emigration; all, except Gerry, had taken the train out of Ardglass in the cold light of dawn. I join them, and they press me with invitations to England, America and Sligo. ‘When are you going to come out to Chicago?’ they ask.

  ‘Soon. Next summer, if I can. I’d love to see America.’

  My nephew Shane from Chicago interrupts his game of hide-and-seek with his English cousins: ‘And we’ll go out on the lake in Dad’s new boat.’

  We chat about the family’s changing fortunes: Eily is moving to Aberystwyth where Richard, her husband, has bought a medical practice; Eddie is up for the superintendent’s job in Ballina. The prettier of the two girls, Pauline – the only one without a family – is a ward sister. Nearly every summer she brings over a different man friend: the previous year it was Malcolm, whom she had met in Spain. Now it’s Jeff from Bath, who wears a cream suit overspread with creases; his grey hair is in a ponytail and he smokes one cheroot after another. They had arrived the day before in a white Morgan sports car. Even in front of everyone, Jeff seems not able to keep his hands off Pauline. She jokes that she hasn’t time to be thinking about marriage. Once, while parents and children are lost in each other, my mother nods in Jeff’s direction: ‘He’s supposed to be an architect. Nice architect.’ She makes clicking sounds with her tongue. ‘And look at the cut of her. A right ri
p. Always was.’

  I try to shift her bile. ‘Elizabeth is like you, they are saying.’

  The attempt fails. She throws a glance at the child – all froth, white silk and smiles for her Daddy, who is holding her between his knees while he speaks to Eddie.

  ‘He’s well and truly with the swanks now. The way that Grace one looks you over.’ And she is about to start on the Healys and their grandeur when Harty waltzes by with Mary who was with him at the Irish Club dinner dance. ‘I never in all my born days saw a priest carry on like that,’ she hisses. ‘I hope you don’t make a fool of yourself like him.’

  ‘I think she’s his cousin from London.’

  ‘Cousin, huh. Does he think we came down in the last shower?’ She shakes herself as she always does when in one of her peevish moods.

  Donaghy and Bonnie are now jiving at a corner near us. Taken up with the dance, the two of them seem to have a total anticipation of each other’s movements. With a look of excitement on her face, Bonnie, in a teasing way, holds down her dress with one hand when he spins her as one might a top. Other dancers have stopped to watch; some begin to clap. And when the tune comes to an end, they applaud loudly.

  ‘That TD.’ My mother throws a jaundiced look in Donaghy’s direction. ‘Where’s his wife?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s M.J.’s friend.’

  ‘Ah, sure.’ More shaking. ‘Tell me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are.’

  Later, while the band is on a break, waitresses trip around with trays of sandwiches and silver pots of tea and coffee. Standing by one of the tables with his cousin Mary, Harty calls me: ‘Tommy, for God’s sake, why don’t you get out of that soutane, and join us on the floor?’

  ‘This is Holy Ireland, John. They’re not ready yet.’