But, he reassured himself, he did have wheels. So, in case he started feeling too isolated from civilization, he could always move on.
Besides, this had been such an unexpectedly hectic trip, he thought he might be in actual need of some measure of tranquility. And this certainly looked like the place to get it.
After freshening up, Koesler returned to the bar, where Tom was still occupied in setting up shop for the expected late afternoon and evening business. Tom was looking at Koesler while arranging bottles of Guinness. He was smiling. “Sorry to be grinning at you, Father, but it does seem funny to have a priest in the pub.”
“Doesn’t the parish priest come in?”
Tom shook his head vigorously. “Not that he doesn’t have his private stock, but, no, he doesn’t come in here . . . or in any pub for that matter.”
Koesler suddenly felt self-conscious. “I suppose I shouldn’t be wearing my roman collar.”
“Why not?” Tom continued to smile. “It gives the place some added class.”
For the first time, Koesler’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness and he was able to more carefully inspect the pub.
The section in which he was standing was long and narrow and dark. The traditional bar with stools on the patrons’ side ran the length of this section where there were also tables and chairs available. In one corner, on a wall-hung platform, was a TV set—not operating at the moment. This section opened upon a much larger area with a small stage and a huge fireplace, also not operating.
Then, Koesler saw him. A small man at one of the tables near the wall in the semidarkness. He sat motionless, a cap on his head, a pipe in his mouth, and one hand wrapped around a shooper of Guinness. But for the wisp of smoke drifting upward from the bowl of his pipe, he might have been a statue.
“Who’s that?”
Tom followed his glance. “Oh, that’s Paddy O’Flynn. He’s usually here as soon as we open. Then he stays with us much of the day and is usually with us when we close.”
Koesler decided to go over and introduce himself.
“Excuse me,” he said as he neared the man, “I’m Father Koesler, Father Robert Koesler. And you, I’m told, are Mr. O’Flynn.”
“I am.” Patrick Joseph O’Flynn snapped to his feet and whipped off his cap, but did not release his grip on either pipe or shooper.
He could have been a clone of Barry Fitzgerald. The contrast between his five-foot-five and Koesler’s six-foot-three was pronounced.
“Please sit down, Mr. O’Flynn. I just came over to visit, if you don’t mind.”
“It’ll be Paddy to you, Father.”
Somehow, Koesler knew better than to invite O’Flynn to get reciprocal and call him Bob.
“Very well, Paddy.” Koesler sat down at O’Flynn’s table. Sitting did not prove much of a help. There was still a significant difference in size between the two men.
“Would ya be givin’ me the honor as well as the pleasure of buying yer Reverence a pint, perhaps?”
“Thank you.”
With a large smile, O’Flynn rapped the table a couple of times. Then, having gained Tom’s attention, he pointed to his glass and held up two fingers.
“Have you been here long, Paddy?”
O’Flynn consulted the clock. “Oh, I’d say since about noon.”
“No, I meant in Gurteen.”
“All my life.”
“You’re a native then.”
“I am.”
Koesler wondered again that no one had ever introduced the Irish to a simple yes or no.
“Then maybe you’d know how big the town is? How many inhabitants?”
“One hundred sixty-seven souls.”
“One hundred sixty-seven? That’s a pretty exact figure.”
“It is. People die; people are born. People marry. Some move away. It’s not all that much trouble to mind who’s doin’ what. The 167 souls would include five Protestant families, poor dears! They had a church for themselves, but sometime back in the fifties it fell into disuse. Now, it’s just a ruins out in the cemetery. An appropriate place for it, all things considered.” O’Flynn sucked in his breath sharply.
Tom delivered the Guinness and departed wordlessly.
“One hundred sixty-seven,” Koesler repeated, and thoughtfully sipped his Guinness. “That would make a pretty respectable clientele for this pub, I take it.”
“It would, but it’s not.”
“Not what?”
“The only pub.”
“It’s not?”
“It’s not! There are seven pubs in Gurteen.”
“Seven pubs in this little town?”
“Seven pubs. That would make it, in case yer doin’ yer arithmetic, 23.85 souls per pub.” O’Flynn paused a moment. “But it doesn’t work out that way.” He paused again. “This one’s the most popular. Because of the stage up there, more than likely. People like their music these days, ah, yes, they do.”
Koesler gestured toward the mute TV mounted high up on the wall. “Back in the States,” he said, “it’s hard to get people to go out at night for live entertainment. They all seem to want to stay home and watch the tube.”
“Ah, yes, Father. But then y’ve got all those channels, haven’t ya?”
“Well, yes, quite a few, especially with cable TV.”
“We’ve got two.”
“Just two?”
“On one of ’em,” O’Flynn glanced at the clock, “in just an hour and a half, they’ll be havin’ the Angelus.”
“No!”
“They will!”
“Well,” Koesler was impressed, “what do people do besides come to one of the pubs?”
“There’s the parish mission.”
“What?”
“The parish mission is goin’ on all this week. Mornin’ Mass at seven; evenin’ services at half seven.”
Koesler thought about that. “That’s interesting. I think I’ll go visit the cemetery for a while to get ready for the mission.”
“Ah, now wouldn’t that be right grand. Father.” O’Flynn, taking him quite seriously, added a Biblical quote: “‘tis a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead.”
They spent a silent moment contemplating their glasses.
“But tell me, Father, if it’s not altogether too impertinent, what’s a fine, upstandin’ priest like yerself doin’ stayin’ in a pub? I assume,” he added in a conspiratorial tone, “that after yer cartin’ yer bag up the stairs and all, that ya are stayin’ here?”
“I’m a friend of Chris Murray’s; he invited me to stay here.”
“You know old Chris!” For the first time since Koesler had encountered this elfish man, O’Flynn removed his left hand from the shooper that held his Guinness. He rubbed both hands together. “A fine man, Chris! A fine man! Comes back regular. Oh, he’s made it in the States, he has. But still, his heart is here.”
“True,” Koesler agreed. “Besides, it’s not all that new an experience for me. I may not know what it’s like to live over an Irish pub, but I certainly know what it’s like living over an American bar.”
“Do ya, now?”
“Indeed. When I was a young lad we lived over a bar, the Tamiami, on the corner of West Vernor and Ferdinand in Detroit. I can remember trying to go to sleep every night with the juke box pounding away under my ear. That’s how I got to know all the words to all the popular music of the time. Like ‘Sentimental Journey’ and ‘Flat Foot Floogie with the Floy Floy’ and ‘Mairzy Doats and Dozy Doats’. . .” Koesler allowed the familiar titles to drift away. It was evident from his expression that O’Flynn’s musical appreciation stopped at the Irish harp and the tin whistle.
“But then, Father, if you’ll forgive my pryin’ a tad further, how did it happen that a fine young Catholic boy as you must have been; how did it happen that you were livin’ over an American pub. Was it during your troubles?”
“Troubles?”
“The Great Depression, I mean to say.”
>
Koesler chuckled. “No, it wasn’t the Depression. Our family owned a grocery store adjacent to the bar, in the same building, you see, and the two families—my parents and my mother’s sisters and their mother—lived in the two flats. One above the store, the other above the bar. Actually, my mother and her sisters owned the store, so it was called Boyle’s Market.”
Again, O’Flynn brightened, almost as much as he had at the mention of Chris Murray. “Boyle, ya say? Boyle! It couldn’t be that yer mother’s people were Boyles, could it now?”
“It could,” said Koesler, attempting a Gaelic-style response, “although originally I believe it was O’Boyle; they lost the ‘O’ somewhere along the way.”
“Boyle! Boyle! Boyle! I knew there was somethin’ I liked about you from the first I set eyes on ya, Father. Apart, that is, from yer bein’ a holy priest of God. And where is it yer folks would be comin’ from?”
“Right down the road, in Boyle.”
“They didn’t!”
“They did!”
“Well, then, Father, let me just tell ya a little bit about the village of Boyle and the Boyles who lived there.”
O’Flynn rapped on the table again until he attracted Tom’s attention. Again he pointed to the Guinness and held up two fingers.
He turned back to Koesler with a sprightly look. “Then, Father, after I tell ya all about Boyle, we can skedaddle over to St. Pat’s and catch the parish mission before tonight’s music at Teach Murray.”
“I don’t know about the parish mission, Paddy. That would sort of be a busman’s holiday. What’s on TV tonight?”
“Well, there’s always the Angelus at six.”
7.
What with one thing and another, an evening of dreary TV programming, together with cold and rainy weather, 7:30 found Father Koesler at St. Patrick’s Church for the parish mission.
Following Paddy O’Flynn’s advice, Koesler did not wear his clerical collar. “There’d be altogether too much adulation over it. Father. Sure, they’d be pullin’ ya up to the altar to preside. Best go as an ordinary human.”
Koesler was astonished at the size of the crowd. This was a good-sized church. Still, it was SRO—standing room only—this evening. Koesler had gotten one of the last seats available—and he was surprised that they were in the rear of the church.
The whole thing was foreign to his experience. In the States, parishes were lucky to get a crowd like this on any of the big three: Christmas, Easter, or Palm Sunday. And this was not a large community such as you’d find in the States. This was a small, a very small, village.
In addition, people filling the church from the rear forward was a clichéd event in the States. So much so that Koesler could recall a Detroit bus driver admonishing the passengers crowding about him in the front of the bus, “Pretend you’re in church, folks, and move to the rear of the bus.” Here, however, people evidently sought the front of the church first.
Koesler looked around. No one seemed to be talking. All were either sitting or standing against one of the walls in silence. Gradually it came to him that although he was undoubtedly the sole stranger in this tight-knit community, no one was gawking— or even looking in his direction. Incredibly polite and gracious people, these Irish.
In the front of the church, in the sanctuary at the left, or pulpit side, the visiting priest, who was conducting this week-long mission, was handing out hymn cards to the ushers, who were, in turn, distributing them to the congregation. On the other side of the sanctuary were the two men—one young, one middle-aged— who would lead a cappella singing.
The priest was vested in cassock, surplice, and stole. From the style of his clerical collar, Koesler recognized him as belonging to the Redemptorists, the religious order founded by St. Alphonsus. Koesler recalled the analysis of a Detroit seminary professor, one Father Sklarski: “Alphonsus,” he had said, “yes, Alphonsus, boys; great man, great man. But if you read him too long, you’ll be putting on your pants with a shoehorn!”
Koesler tried not to laugh. The citizens of Gurteen obviously took their parish mission seriously.
There was no sign of the pastor, whoever he was. Koesler assumed that at least the tradition of the missing pastor was common to both the States and Ireland. Most parishes seemed to schedule a mission every other year or so, concomitant with which the pastor almost invariably went off on a “well-deserved vacation.”
Things gave every sign of getting underway. The Redemptorist was needlessly tapping the microphone to make sure it was on. People winced at the machine-gun-like clatter. On the other side of the sanctuary, the two singers were pulling at their ties preparatory to warbling.
“O.K. now, folks,” the priest announced, “we’ll just begin with our opening hymn.” Everyone fiddled with the hymn cards. “We’ll start by singin’ ‘Holy God,’ cause everyone knows ‘Holy God.’”
People were still juggling their hymn cards while, on the other side of the sanctuary, the two hymn leaders were alternately looking from the priest to each other to their hymn cards. But nothing was happening.
After a few moments, the priest quite patiently announced, “Now, we’re goin’ to start with number one on our hymn cards— ‘Holy God’ —’cause everybody knows ‘Holy God.’”
Again, the two singers frantically looked from the priest to their hymn cards to each other. Again, nothing happened.
Ever so patiently, the priest announced in his broad brogue, “We’re goin’ to begin with hymn number one, ‘Holy God’ — ‘cause everybody knows ‘Holy God.”‘
It was obvious, at least to Koesler, that the song leaders did not have the same hymn card as everyone else had. On Koesler’s card, “Holy God” was, indeed, hymn number one.
This time, the two singers consulted with each other, turned to their microphone, and began loudly and confidently to sing: “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound./That saved a wretch like me . . .”
And everyone joined in—’cause everyone knew “Amazing Grace.”
The hymn was followed by a lengthy sermon, during which Koesler suffered one of his patented distractions. He couldn’t recall whether the account was fact or fiction. But one Detroit parish was reported to have held a mission during which, on the final day, the visiting priest preached on Mary, the mother of Jesus. Reportedly, the priest got carried away and told the congregation that Mary was so powerful with God that at the end of the world, she would swoop even into hell and rescue the souls there.
Understandably, this caused considerable consternation among the parishioners. When the pastor returned from his well-deserved vacation, and was told what the missionary had supposedly said, he determined to clear up the matter.
So, the following Sunday, the pastor told his flock that the visiting missionary had been zealously carried away . . . that he had not intended to imply that at the end of the world Mary would rescue all the souls in hell . . . but only those who had been unjustly condemned.
Once again, Koesler barely succeeded in not smiling. St. Patrick’s people gave every evidence of taking seriously whatever their missionary was saying.
After the homily, a family group was called to the sanctuary, where they gave a demonstration of how to recite the family rosary. A simple maneuver that required minimal instruction. This was followed by a benediction and that evening’s mission celebration was concluded.
There followed a virtual stampede to Teach Murray, where the Wolfe Tones, an internationally famous and extremely popular group of Irish male singers and musicians, were scheduled to perform. Citizens of many neighboring towns had joined those of Gurteen for this concert.
When Koesler reached the pub, he could scarcely shoulder his way in. In fact, he would have been discouraged from trying to enter, except that, for the nonce, he lived there. Once inside, he found that Paddy O’Flynn had miraculously managed to save a seat for him in the rear near the stage.
“You’ll like ’em,” O’Flynn said. “The boys are among Ir
eland’s finest, especially when it comes to the rebel songs!”
Ordinarily, the Irish were so polite that even with a crowd this large, one still could converse in a normal tone. However, repeated testing proved the amplification system to be at peak decibel emission. As a result, people had to raise their voices to order drinks. O’Flynn, however, already had a Guinness on the table for himself and one for Koesler.
Most enthusiastic applause greeted the Tones, who plunged immediately into their first offering:
There was a wild colonial boy;
Jack Duggan was his name.
He was born and bred in Ireland,
In a place called Castlemain.
He was his father’s only son;
His mother’s pride and joy.
And dearly did his parents love
The Wild Colonial Boy.
“Is that a rebel song?” asked Koesler.
O’Flynn shook his head and grinned. “Ya haven’t heard anything yet.”
And he had not.
Next came the rakish “Rockon Rockall.” Everyone was invited to—and everyone did—join in the chorus, which concluded, “The natural gas will burn your ass, and blow you all to hell.” Then followed, in rapid succession, “The Boys of the Old Brigade,” “My Highland Paddy,” “Bold Robert Emmet,” “We’re on the One Road,” “James Connolly,” “God Save Ireland,” and on and on.
Three Guinnesses later, Koesler turned to his companion. “Paddy,” he said, “it’s been a long day for me. And I hope for some sightseeing tomorrow. So, I think I’ll just call it a night. But I thank you for making this day so memorable.”
O’Flynn raised his glass in salute. “God rest ya, Father. May ya be asleep half an hour before the divil knows y’er in bed.”
Koesler squeezed through the crowd to the stairs and went up to his room.
He couldn’t get over how cold it was. It had been cold ever since he had arrived in Gurteen, a damp cold. Was it the Irish weather in general—or a geographic peculiarity of this village in particular? Whatever, he was cold.
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