Saints and Sinners

by Paul Cuddihy

  His daddy would stumble into the cottage, imbibed with an alcohol-drenched patriotism that he wanted to impart to his oldest son. It didn’t matter that Thomas had to be dragged, half sleeping, out of bed, and made to listen to tall tales of fallen heroes and lavish boasts of heroes yet to come.

  ‘The Brotherhood will free Ireland,’ his daddy would slur, leaning into Thomas’ face so that the whiskey fumes washed over his face and stung his own throat, and he’d swallow hard to stop himself from throwing up.

  Sometimes the lectures would last for hours or they might end abruptly when his daddy’s head, weighed down by drink and tiredness, crashed onto the table. Thomas would wait a few minutes until the snoring began before creeping back into his own bed. It would take him longer to fall asleep again. He was cold and felt sick every time he breathed in and smelt traces of alcohol that clung to him like a damp cloud on a winter’s morning.

  He wondered who they were, these mysterious men who were part of the Brotherhood. He knew his daddy wouldn’t be involved – drink was the only thing he thought worth fighting for – but he imagined these men to be big and strong and heroic and sober, interested only in Ireland’s freedom.

  Now, Thomas knew that they were all of these things and none of these things. They were just men, no more or less, and one of them now stood before him in the sacristy. He frowned as Padraig repeated the name of the Brotherhood, though he quickly replaced it with a pained smile. He didn’t want to appear unhelpful, but Padraig didn’t seem to notice.

  Just as he knew Thomas would agree to the request, Padraig must also have been sure that the priest wouldn’t betray the Brotherhood’s confidence, though that may well have just been the assurance of talking as one Irishman to another. It was enough to make Thomas shake his head when he thought about it later. If there was any lesson to be learned from the history of their troubled land, it was that an Irishman’s worst enemy was one of his own. Still, he had no intention of proclaiming loudly the purpose of the meetings, content instead to report back to the Archbishop as he’d been instructed.

  There were seven of them in total who had attended the three meetings. As well as Padraig, the group consisted of Daniel Lafferty, Sean Dempsey, Sean Doherty, Denis Lyons, Harry O’Donnell and Martin Higgins. Those were the names that Thomas had scribbled down in his diary after the first meeting. He’d been in the hall to welcome them, ushering them towards one of the smaller rooms that branched off from the main part of the building.

  They all sat round the table he’d put in especially for them, though none of the men spoke. Some of them had greeted him on their arrival with a nod or a deft touch of the cap but once they were together, silence descended on the gathering. They were all waiting for him to leave.

  ‘Do you want me to say a prayer before you get started?’ he’d asked dutifully, but Padraig shook his head. Thomas quickly scanned the room, hoping to locate at least one pair of eager eyes but most of the men wouldn’t return his gaze. They were obviously desperate to begin their meeting and he could sense that he had overstayed his welcome, even though this was home to him. He closed the door, briefly thinking of standing outside and trying to listen, though he knew that if he was caught, the repercussions would not be pleasant.

  He was sitting at the table in the meeting room after dinner when Padraig walked in, accompanied by another man that Thomas had never seen before.

  ‘Father,’ Padraig said with a brief nod, sitting down opposite the priest and gesturing for his companion to take the seat beside him. As the man sat down, Thomas studied him discreetly, committing to memory the colour of his hair, the shape of his crooked nose, the clothes he was wearing, though this information was surplus to requirements. All that the Archbishop wanted was names.

  ‘Father Costello,’ he said, stretching a hand out across the table.

  The stranger grasped it with his, revealing a firm grip and course palms.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Father,’ he said with a nod.

  Padraig coughed and Thomas knew he was being asked to leave. He remained sitting at the table, smiling at Padraig.

  ‘That’s a heavy fall of snow we’ve had tonight,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll need to watch we’re not snowed in,’ the stranger said in an accent that Thomas couldn’t quite place. If he had to guess, he’d have said Cork, but he did not have his brother’s gift.

  The other men began to drift into the room, one or two also remarking on the weather. They all dropped onto the nearest empty seat and, as before, a cloak of silence seemed to drop over them and Thomas decided it was time to go. As he stood up, Sean Dempsey walked in.

  ‘Dan Foley,’ he said with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, striding over to the stranger who stood up, grinning. Both men hugged, patting the other’s back enthusiastically but Thomas noticed Padraig’s stern face and reckoned Dempsey was minutes away from a reprimand. Excusing himself, he closed the door behind him and walked across the church hall to the entrance. Glancing back cautiously, he took out his diary from his jacket pocket and quickly scribbled the name in his book. At least it meant something new to report to Father McNeill when they met tomorrow.

  Thomas edged the hall door open and caught a blast of cold air, which took advantage of the gap and flooded into the building. Handfuls of snow that had been piling up against the door spilled onto the floor inside and as he pushed it open a little further, he could see the white powder lying inches deep on the ground outside. It was still snowing, though not as heavy as before and he shivered as he pulled the door shut again.

  He walked halfway across the hall, heading towards the door that led back through to the church. A sudden burst of laughter from the room stopped him in his tracks for a moment. Curiosity that had lurked in the background since the first meeting now began to grip him and he couldn’t resume his journey out of the hall. It was because of the stranger’s presence, he realised, and he found himself quietly creeping back towards the room.

  A low murmur slipped out from under the door but it was indistinguishable even as Thomas stood, holding his breath and pressing his ear to the wooden barrier. Occasional loud words were recognisable but nothing that made any sense. He was about to turn away again when there was a click. He knew right away what it was and the realisation momentarily paralysed him. When he took a step back he was aware that he was still holding his breath and he slowly and silently began to exhale.

  There was another click and this time he knew for sure. There was a gun in the room, perhaps even more than one. He knew that sound, even though it had been many years since he’d heard it, when he was a boy back in Galway and he’d gone hunting with his daddy, looking for dinner, but the noise still made him nervous even now.

  He took another step back and pressed down on a loose floor-board, which creaked loudly for a second. Thomas decided against waiting to see whether the men in the room had heard it, and strode quickly out of the hall and into the church. His mind was racing, though it was struggling to keep up with his heart, which beat with a nervousness that only Kate had previously managed to provoke.

  All he’d been asked to do was provide a list of names. Hadn’t that been what the Archbishop said? He’d spoken about apocalyptic dangers the Church faced, though in such cryptic terms that Thomas couldn’t understand why his task had any relevance. He now had a new name, but more than that, he had other information.

  Certainly, it was unsettling to know that there was a weapon on Church property. He could think of no good reason for the gun’s presence, but he could imagine a few bad ones; these men were not planning a hunting trip, at least not one where the only target was a rabbit, and he wished he had not agreed to Padraig’s request. The reality, however, was that it was the Archbishop who had asked and he was not in a position to say no, even though he couldn’t imagine his superior would be pleased to hear about the gun. If only he could speak to Monsignor Dolan about it, then he might feel better, but the Archbishop had demanded ‘confessional secrec
y’ and for now Thomas felt compelled to maintain that.

  He slipped into one of the pews and knelt down, closing his eyes and asking God for some help. His lips moved as he began muttering familiar prayers, the Hail Mary and Our Father, ones that he’d learned on his mammy’s knee and which remained a source of spiritual comfort to him even now. He smiled as he remembered the small boy who’d declared when he was only nine years old that he wanted to be a priest. His mammy had burst into tears while his daddy shook his head and muttered, ‘That’s all Ireland needs. Another bloody priest.’

  He’d been chased out of the cottage for his blasphemy, complaining loudly but heading gratefully for the pub, while Thomas knelt at the side of his bed beside his mammy and said prayers – ‘For your father’s black soul,’ she’d hissed bitterly.

  Thomas fumbled in his pockets, bringing out a set of rosary beads that gave structure to his prayers.

  ‘Do you think he hears you, Father?’ a voice whispered in his ear.

  Thomas looked up and came face-to-face with Padraig, who was leaning over from the row behind him. He was startled and almost tumbled sideways. Padraig leant forward again.

  ‘I’m not convinced that he does, to tell you the truth. I think maybe that’s what has held us back all these years. All these superstitions and rituals, promising a better time in the next life so that we accept the misery we’ve got in this one.’

  ‘We’re all entitled to our beliefs,’ Thomas said nervously.

  ‘If only that were true, Father.’

  Thomas sat back in the pew and looked round at Padraig. He was not a familiar face at Sunday Mass, even though he stayed no more than a stone’s throw from the church. He would appear only at funerals, standing morosely at the back, slipping in at the last moment and leaving just as discreetly before the coffin was even carried out. If he was a notable absentee, then his wife was the opposite. Mary Clarke sat in the second row, right-hand side every Sunday morning at half-past-nine Mass, her head covered by a veil and bowed in prayer, no doubt for her non-believing husband.

  ‘Is that the meeting finished already?’ Thomas asked.

  Padraig shook his head. ‘I just decided to take a breather. It gets a bit stuffy in there with all those sweaty Irishmen.’ He laughed gruffly, the noise echoing out across the empty church and drifting high up to the domed roof above the altar. Thomas forced his mouth into a smile.

  ‘We appreciate your help, Father. It’s a handy wee room.’

  ‘You’re very welcome.’

  ‘A bit of privacy’s hard to find. I mean, you just never know who might be listening outside the door. You can never be too careful, can you, Father?’

  Thomas shook his head.

  ‘That’s the way we like to keep it, Father. Silence is golden, as they say. So every noise makes us jumpy, a gust of wind, a banging door, a loose floorboard. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So it might be better if you left the key with us,’ Padraig said.

  ‘The key?’

  ‘For the room. It would save you having to disrupt your busy schedule just to see us in and out.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I think it would be better, Father. You’ve done enough for us already, so I don’t want to put you out any more.’

  Padraig stood up, suddenly towering over Thomas, who thought of voicing more objections but knew what the end result would still be. All the time the click of the gun was ricocheting through his mind. He rummaged in his pocket and brought out a bundle of keys, taking a few seconds to prise the meeting room key off the thick silver ring that held them all. He handed it to Padraig, who immediately slipped it into his pocket, nodded and walked back to the hall, his footsteps falling heavily on the stone floor as he disappeared through the door. Thomas remained sitting for a few minutes after he’d gone. The urge to pray had left him though his mind still raced with thoughts of what was going on in that room. He would have to be more careful from now on, or perhaps just a little less curious. Avoiding any loose floorboards might help as well.

  14

  DEAR DIARY

  He could tell that Father McNeill was anxious to leave and that just made Thomas go all the slower. He opened one drawer and rummaged about inside, shaking his head and frowning before closing it and opening the one below it.

  ‘I’m sure I put it in here last night,’ he said as Father McNeill stood in the middle of the room, arms folded and fingers drumming impatiently on his sleeve. Even just glancing round at his fellow priest, Thomas could see the coating of dandruff which covered the shoulders of the black jacket and he had a sudden urge to get up and brush them clean. It would certainly have startled his guest and he suppressed a smile as he thought of the reaction it would provoke.

  ‘Are you just going to tell me the same names as before?’ Father McNeill said with a heavy sigh.

  ‘No, there’s more. Somebody new … Where did I leave that diary?’

  He finished searching the third drawer and then stood up with a shrug.

  ‘If it’s only one name, can you not remember it?’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘Probably, but I want to make sure. I don’t want the Archbishop getting inaccurate information.’

  Father McNeill walked over to one of the armchairs in the far corner of the room and dropped down onto it, dislodging some of the dandruff, which floated in the air like tiny flecks of snow. He produced a pocket watch that he opened and studied, snorting angrily before snapping it shut and plunging it back into his pocket.

  ‘My carriage is waiting outside,’ he said curtly.

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry. I’ve got a terrible memory.’

  The diary was close to Thomas’ heart, literally. It sat in the inside pocket of his jacket, ready to be produced at any moment, but he was enjoying the other man’s irritation. He’d been surprised that Father McNeill came to see him. He’d presumed it would have been the other way around, or that they would have agreed a designated meeting place where neither man would be recognised, but the Archbishop had insisted. St Alphonsus’ would just become another port of call on his Chancellor’s tour of the city’s parishes, not arousing any suspicions amongst the parishioners or parish priest.

  The arrangement suited Thomas. It was certainly more convenient, and he enjoyed witnessing the discomfort that Father McNeill evidently felt whenever he ventured out from the cosseted comforts of the Cathedral. It was bringing him into close proximity with ordinary people – ordinary Irish people – and the Highlander’s distaste was barely concealed.

  Thomas also remained curious as to what was going on. He didn’t want to ask bluntly. For one thing, he knew that he wouldn’t get a straight answer, if any answer at all, but to have raised any questions might have been seen as a sign of dissent towards the Archbishop and that was not recommended.

  ‘It just seems like a talking shop,’ he said at last as he stood, hands on hips, facing Father McNeill.

  ‘What do they talk about?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not allowed in when the meeting’s started.’

  ‘Well, at least we know who’s doing the talking. Are you going to find this diary or not, because I have a busy schedule.’

  Thomas patted his pockets absent-mindedly, affecting a startled expression as he touched the diary.

  ‘Would you believe it was in here all the time?’ he said with a laugh, mentally complimenting his own acting skills as Father McNeill stood up. He flicked through the book until he came to the last list he’d scribbled down two nights ago.

  ‘Are you not curious to know what the Archbishop wants with this information?’ he said, holding the page open.

  ‘Have you got the names there?’

  ‘I mean, he’s got you charging round the Archdiocese collecting names of men who sit in a church hall chatting about the old country, and without you even knowing what for.’

  ‘Who says I don’t know?’

 
‘Maybe you do. It was just the impression that I got. It seems pretty secret to me, so I didn’t think His Grace was for telling anyone, not even his Chancellor.’

  Father McNeill smiled grimly as he copied down all the names from Thomas’ diary, scribbling each one down in an untidy script, though he printed the name ‘DAN FOLEY’ in heavy capital letters.

  ‘We are an old Church and a young Church in this country,’ Father McNeill said as he wrote. ‘And our resurgence has been a blessing for those of us who kept the faith alive during the dark days.’

  ‘And rightly so,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Even if we have had to rely on the help of others to build ourselves back up.’

  Thomas knew what he meant by others, but resisted offering any defence of his fellow countrymen and women. Others had done so in the past and found, to their cost, that the Chancellor could be very unforgiving with those who dared to disagree with him, and Thomas had no great desire to find himself dispatched to some far-flung corner of the diocese.

  ‘Our enemies remain strong too,’ Father McNeill continued. ‘We cannot give them an excuse to kill the sapling before it has taken root, if you know what I mean?’

  Thomas nodded.

  ‘So a few men sitting in a room talking about the old country, as you describe it – talking and planning and plotting – puts the whole future of the Church in this country at risk. And when that risk is spelt out to the Archbishop then he must act to prevent any such disaster from happening. We’ve worked and prayed too long and too hard to let a few Irishmen jeopardise that.’

  He almost spat out the word ‘Irishmen’ as if a fly had lodged itself in his throat and he was trying to get it out. Shutting his own diary and pocketing it, he nodded briefly and headed for the door.

  ‘Same time next week,’ he said, disappearing out of the room without waiting for any reply. Thomas was glad that he’d mentioned nothing of the gun to the other priest. He hadn’t intended to keep it a secret but there was something in the Chancellor’s words that had stopped him. Or was it simply the smug expression that always seemed to rile Thomas? He stared at the list of names on the page in front of him, gripped once more with a curiosity to find out what plans were brewing inside that room, though he realised he couldn’t risk standing outside the door again.