by Paul Cuddihy
‘So we must help our flock whenever we can, wouldn’t you agree, Thomas?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘But we must also guide them, steering them away from the work of the evil one, which is so prevalent at this time.’
The tea had now been poured and Father McNeill stood to the side, sipping from his cup and never taking his eyes away from Thomas, who’d waited for the Archbishop’s invitation before taking his own cup. It wasn’t a patch on Mrs Breslin’s, he thought, but smiled appreciatively at his superior when he looked up.
The three priests continued drinking their tea in silence, the only sound to invade the room the dying hiss of the burning candle, though Thomas wasn’t sure if the other two men even heard it. Remember you are wax and unto wax you shall return, Thomas thought and had to stop himself from smiling.
‘Now to business,’ the Archbishop eventually said in an urgent tone that had previously been absent.
‘I need your help, Thomas,’ he said, slipping his glasses back on and peering over the edge of them. Thomas couldn’t understand why he needed them now but thought better than to ask. ‘Will you help me?’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Thomas said nervously.
‘These are difficult days, Thomas, and we have many enemies, but when there are enough good men willing to come to her aid, then Holy Mother Church will survive. More than that, she will survive and prosper.’
Father McNeill moved towards the table, nodding in agreement as he put his empty cup down. He remained standing at the table, towering over Thomas, who refused to look up at the Scottish priest.
‘Our people are being led astray, Thomas, and it is up to us to steer them back onto the right path. We are the shepherds and we have to round up these stray members of our flock.’
Archbishop Eyre pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose and smiled as he told Thomas what he’d have to do. St Alphonsus’ was to become a meeting place for the Irish Republican Brotherhood, the Archbishop explained. The group, agitating for Irish independence, had increased their presence and influence in the city and Thomas’ parish was going to hold out its welcoming arms to the secretive organisation.
‘And after every meeting, you will give Father McNeill a list of all those who attended,’ the Archbishop said with a nod to his Chancellor, who stood wearing a sneer that Thomas was sorely tempted to wipe off his face.
‘Why me?’ he asked in a nervous whisper. He wasn’t even sure if he actually made a sound and he was as surprised as the Archbishop evidently was that he’d said anything at all.
‘Politics is not the path to salvation,’ the Archbishop said after a minute of awkward silence, ‘and so we must ensure that those who are misguided do not propagate these beliefs but are brought back into the fold.’
‘You want me to spy on them?’
‘Don’t be so dramatic, Thomas. This is hardly a penny dreadful story we find ourselves in.’
Father McNeill snorted and Thomas glared at him.
‘I simply want you to watch over them, as any good pastor would,’ said the Archbishop.
‘But what if they find out?’
‘They won’t.’
‘But what –’
‘You will offer to help them and they will trust you because you are a priest.’
Thomas could only presume that the Englishman and the Scotsman were ignorant of what the Irishman knew about the Brotherhood. Detection would mean his demise, and his dog collar would offer no deterrent to these people, not when betrayal was his crime. He was uncomfortable, too, about having to spy on his fellow countrymen, though he knew that his first loyalty – at seminary they’d insisted it should be their only loyalty – was to the Church before Ireland. It had never been something that troubled him, though he knew the distinction for some of his fellow priests was much more blurred. If he was being honest, patriotism had always played second fiddle to his prayers, even when he was a young boy. His wariness was more to do with self-preservation and that would remain his main priority.
‘What about Monsignor Dolan?’ he asked.
‘This is a matter between us,’ the Archbishop said.
‘But it’s his parish. He’ll want to know why these men are holding meetings in his church hall.’
Archbishop Eyre smiled, taking his glasses off and placing them on top of the Bible.
‘Monsignor Dolan is a faithful servant of the Church, but that faith is simple and straightforward. I fear he would not understand what we are trying to do here, Thomas, and perhaps not appreciate the need for secrecy … confessional secrecy. You, on the other hand, can see the bigger picture. That is why I have called on you. I know I’m asking a lot of you,’ he said, sensing the apprehension from across the table. ‘But the future of the Church in this city, indeed, in this country, could be at stake … I hope I’m not being too overdramatic?’
Thomas knew he didn’t have a choice. A priest could not disobey his bishop and he sensed this was not the time to ignore that rule.
‘Father McNeill will show you out,’ the Archbishop said with a dismissive gesture towards the purple curtain and Thomas stood up, not caring that the chair scraped noisily along the stone floor. He was face-to-face with his fellow priest who smiled grimly like he was already picturing Thomas’s funeral and Thomas shivered uneasily. It was as his mother had always said. Someone had just walked across his grave.
9
ACROSS THE WATER
It was a recurring nightmare that always ended with the sound of a splash, forcing Mick’s body to jolt, and he’d sit up in bed, gasping for breath like it was him who’d been thrown overboard. These were fitful sleeps and frantic dreams but the sound that rang in his ears long after he had wakened was real enough. It made him shiver whenever he remembered and he’d quickly bless himself, sometimes trying to piece together a few words from prayers that he now only half-remembered. It was enough to bring a tear to a statue, as his mother used to say, and he was always glad no one ever saw him in this state.
He wished he could dream of something else, even the fact that he still hadn’t found Kate despite three days of looking for her. At least that would have made him angry, if more than a little frustrated, but sleep would bring him no such comforts. All his mind could remember was the boat trip when he escaped from Ireland…
The boat was already full by the time he managed to shuffle up the gang-plank. At times it felt like the movement of the other passengers, all crammed together shoulder to shoulder, was pushing him towards the boat rather than anything he might be doing himself, like putting one foot in front of the other, and he was glad for his height and weight, which prevented him from completely disappearing under the desperate surge.
At the time he thought he’d been lucky to get on the vessel at all. He had managed to acquire the fare – two pennies that he’d robbed from a drunk who’d been foolish enough to venture up a dark lane to relieve his bladder. Mick had felt guilty even as he’d smashed the man’s head off the brick wall, knocking him clean out so that rummaging quickly through his damp pockets had been an easy task, but he told himself it was the lesser of two evils; he told God that, if truth be told, and hoped forgiveness would come his way at some point in the future. For now, he needed to leave Ireland and he couldn’t do that without money. His unconscious victim only possessed a few coins, but it would be enough to get across the water.
Even when he finally managed to get on board, he kept moving in the hope that some space might suddenly appear, even just enough so that he could stretch his limbs, still aching from the exertions of his escape. He’d been afraid to stop, even for five minutes, and he’d punished his body while running the beast into the ground. When he’d left it some twenty miles from Belfast, its weak legs barely able to hold the weight of its panting body, Mick knew that it would be dead soon, either collapsing under its own exhaustion or hastened to its end by whichever hungry soul stumbled upon what he was sure they would think was a gift from God.
The horse came back into his mind as he finally came to a stop halfway up the side of the boat. The smell of animals seeped up from below him and when he strained to hear above the tired drone of his fellow passengers, he could make out the restless cries of nervous beasts in the hold. It was most likely cattle that had been herded on board and he was almost envious of them as the first drops began falling onto his head. It took no more than ten minutes of thick, angry rain before everyone on deck was completely drenched
‘That’s Our Lady’s tears for Ireland,’ a woman was telling her son, who stood ignoring her as he stared through the sheets of rain towards the dock, where people were still queuing up to get on the boat. No one else seemed to hear her and Mick wiped those heavenly tears off his face, a pointless exercise since more immediately replaced them, and so he stood with everyone else, silently accepting the fate that the dark clouds overhead had decreed for them all.
It was another half hour at least before the boat finally pulled away from the dock. Mick wondered how many passengers were on board, not to mention the animals down below, the vessel groaning under the pressure of its cargo as it inched away from land. He resisted the urge to look back – he didn’t want to risk it being his last ever glimpse of Ireland – instead focusing his gaze on the choppy waters ahead which waited menacingly for them.
Ten minutes out of Belfast the rain stopped, the wind having blown itself into exhaustion, the water calm as a bath tub. That’s when the shivering started. Every item of Mick’s clothing was soaked and the wet garments clung to his skin as if they were trying to suck the heat out of him in order to dry themselves. He couldn’t stop the tremors shaking his body and he felt colder with every passing second. It was then that he heard it … the cough of the dying.
The little girl could not have been more than two years old. Her mother was crouched down as comfortably as the limited space would allow and the little girl sat on her lap, her head buried into her mother’s chest, blonde hair hiding her face. At first glance it looked like the child was asleep but every few minutes a cough would grip the tiny body, shaking it callously so that the mother would wrap her arms even tighter round the child’s frame.
Mick didn’t want to catch the woman’s attention, not least because he was afraid that she would read, in his own eyes, the grim inevitability of the situation. If she asked him, he wouldn’t lie. He couldn’t tell the truth either, but false hope was the cruellest gift to give anyone in these circumstances. So the child kept coughing, each one sounding weaker and more deadly than the one before. The Scottish coastline was just about visible when there was just silence. He looked down as discreetly as he could, desperate now to avoid contact with the woman, but she was staring at her daughter, her lips pressed to the blonde hair and muttering silent prayers in between gentle kisses. Mick swallowed deeply and wished it would start raining again so that his own tears could mingle with Our Lady’s.
One or two shouts alerted everyone else to the approaching land and it seemed to restore people’s ability to speak, a steady murmur beginning to rise up from the boat like steam from an exhausted animal. Mick knew better than to tell anyone that they were still hours away from Glasgow and the chance to put two feet firmly back on dry land. Still, the sudden wave of optimism was contagious and he couldn’t help but grin himself.
He stopped as the woman stood up shakily, still holding her daughter. He reached out a hand and gripped her elbow to steady her until she was facing him. He wanted to hold her gaze – he didn’t know why because he knew it wouldn’t bring her comfort – but he had to look away after a few seconds. She shuffled forward and there was a parting of bodies, as much as was possible in the cramped circumstances. It was as if everyone knew that she needed some space.
She took a few steps and didn’t stop when she got to the side of the boat. Mick could never figure out how it happened so quickly but one minute she was there in front of him and the next she had disappeared overboard with her daughter, vanishing beneath the frothy water being churned up in the boat’s wake, the only sound ringing in Mick’s ears that of the splash when the bodies hit the waves, even as gasps and shouts from other passengers raised the alarm.
Even after he’d got dressed and headed out, Mick still couldn’t shake that haunting sound from his mind. There was nothing anyone could have done on the boat to save the child – her life had been in God’s hands alone. Still, he couldn’t help but admire her mother’s courage, for what life awaited her in Glasgow without her daughter? It was hardly likely she had enough money to bury the girl and an existence full of pain and poverty was the only guarantee. She chose instead to be with the little girl and Mick was sure God would understand that too.
He strode along the street with a determined purpose, pushing the boat trip to the back of his mind, at least until he closed his eyes that night and drifted off to sleep to discover himself back on board. He had a job to find and he knew better than to be late. The word in the pub was that Lorimer’s factory was offering a few days’ work, and he knew that many of those who’d supped alongside him last night would be heading in the same direction at this very moment, unless they were still sleeping off their overindulgence. It would only be a morning’s work today but that suited Mick well enough. He was of a mind to head back to the streets near the docks one last time. He knew it was a hopeless search – hadn’t the man in black struggled to find him so far and that was with the benefit of six guineas to loosen tongues – so what chance did he have of finding Kate? With each passing hour his guilt was fading away, however, and he knew his search was drawing to a close.
There were already plenty of bodies gathered outside the factory gates when he arrived but it didn’t stop him from pushing his way towards the front, ignoring the angry shouts from those he elbowed out the way. He wanted to make sure he was within easy eye contact of the foreman, though he didn’t have to worry. He knew the man – they’d drank together on more than one occasion, but more importantly, he was also from Galway and he looked after his own. Mick nodded as he passed through the gates.
‘Thanks, Mr O’Rourke,’ he said with a smile and O’Rourke winked, so quick that no one else was likely to notice and complain, but Mick noted it gratefully.
It was a labouring job; mind-numbing, back-breaking and relentless, but it was a job all the same. An old store-house at the back of the factory needed demolishing so Mick and his fellow workers, with sledge-hammers in hand, attacked the frail old building without mercy. They were all covered in dust and debris within seconds but there were no complaints to be heard above the grunts of bodies that would be tired soon enough. Mick was glad of the early finish, with it being Saturday, and he continued the assault on the walls, dreaming of the one o’clock whistle that would set him free.
Mr O’Rourke appeared around ten, giving them the nod that they could stop for five minutes to have a smoke. He’d brought a bucket of water with him, which he put down at his feet, a few splashes escaping onto his boots. He held up a ladle and the men shuffled forward, grateful for the chance to refresh parched mouths. There was no way to avoid inhaling the dust which covered them with silent menace and as the cold liquid touched his lips, Mick was almost moved to offer a prayer of thanks to God.
O’Rourke now stood away from the queue of men, drawing heavily on a cigarette. He nodded to Mick as he handed the ladle to the next man in line and he headed over to the foreman. Lighting his own cigarette, Mick began spluttering. The tobacco bonded with the dust as it glided down his throat and he had to dredge up whatever he could from his mouth and spit it out.
‘Dirty work,’ said O’Rourke.
‘Aye,’ said Mick with another cough.
‘There’s a week’s worth here if you want it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Be here just before seven every morning.’
‘I’m grateful to you, Mr O’Rourke.’
‘If a Galway man can’t help one of his own, what sort of world is that?
’
‘That’s true and not a word of a lie.’
Both men continued smoking in silence. Mick watched the men devouring the water and he knew he’d have to be quick if he wanted another drink before starting back at work. O’Rourke had almost finished his cigarette and that would signal the end of the break.
‘So are you a fan of the football then?’
Mick looked at O’Rourke, not sure the question had been directed at him, but there was no one else within earshot. Mick shrugged.
‘A few of the boys are going to see the Celtic this afternoon.’
‘The Celtic?’
‘We’ll be at Flaherty’s in Cornfield Street if you’re of a mind yourself. The game starts at two.’
‘Thanks for the invite,’ Mick said, drawing on his dying cigarette one last time before he flicked it away. O’Rourke nodded as he stepped forward towards the bucket, calling time on the short break. Within minutes, clouds of dust once again swirled in the air above them and the relentless crash of steel on brick echoed out against the chill Glasgow morning.
Mick swore he’d never heard a sweeter sound in all his life than the whistle that called time on their exertions. The final strains hadn’t even faded away before he’d thrown the sledge-hammer down on the pile of rubble resting at his feet which, just a few short hours before, had been a solid wall. Everyone else had done the same, though their eagerness in discarding tools was not matched in their departure. Mainly they shuffled painfully towards the exit, backs that were bent slowly beginning to unravel and it seemed like some of the workers gained feet in height as they managed to stretch to their full length again.