The Collar

by Frank O'Connor

  The officer was a tall, good-looking young man about his own age. He had a long, dark face with an obstinate jaw that stuck out like some advertisement for a shaving-soap, and a pleasant, jerky, conciliatory manner.

  ‘Good morning, padre,’ he said in a harsh voice. ‘My name is Howe. I called about your garden. I believe our chaps have been giving you some trouble.’

  By this time Father Michael would cheerfully have made him a present of the garden.

  ‘Ah,’ he said with a smile, ‘wasn’t it my own fault for putting temptation in their way?’

  ‘Well, it’s very nice of you to take it like that,’ Howe said in a tone of mild surprise, ‘but the co is rather indignant. He suggested barbed wire.’

  ‘Electrified?’ Father Michael asked ironically.

  ‘No,’ Howe said. ‘Ordinary barbed wire. Pretty effective, you know.’

  ‘Useless,’ Father Michael said promptly. ‘Don’t worry any more about it. You’ll have a drop of Irish? And ice in it. Go on, you will!’

  ‘A bit early for me, I’m afraid,’ Howe said, glancing at his watch.

  ‘Coffee, so,’ said the priest authoritatively. ‘No one leaves this house without some nourishment.’

  He shouted to Elsie for coffee and handed Howe a cigarette. Howe knocked it briskly on the chair and lit it.

  ‘Now,’ he said in a businesslike tone, ‘this chap you caught last night – how much damage had he done?’

  The question threw Father Michael more than ever on his guard. He wondered how the captain knew.

  ‘Which chap was this?’ he asked noncommittally.

  ‘The chap you beat up.’

  ‘That I beat up?’ echoed Father Michael wonderingly. ‘Who said I beat him up?’

  ‘He did,’ Howe replied laconically. ‘He expected you to report him, so he decided to give himself up. You seem to have scared him pretty badly,’ he added with a laugh.

  However much Father Michael might have scared the sentry, the sentry had now scared him worse. It seemed the thing was anything but over, and if he wasn’t careful, he might soon find himself involved as a witness against the sentry. It was like the English to expect people to report them! They took everything literally, even to a fit of bad temper.

  ‘But why did he expect me to report him?’ he asked in bewilderment. ‘When do you say this happened? Last night?’

  ‘So I’m informed,’ Howe said shortly. ‘Do you do it regularly? … I mean Collins, the man you caught stealing onions last evening,’ he went on, raising his voice as though he thought Father Michael might be slightly deaf, or stupid, or both.

  ‘Oh, was that his name?’ the priest asked watchfully. ‘Of course, I couldn’t be sure he stole them. There were onions stolen all right, but that’s a different thing.’

  ‘But I understand you caught him at it,’ Howe said with a frown.

  ‘Oh, no,’ replied Father Michael gravely. ‘I didn’t actually catch him at anything. I admit I charged him with it, but he denied it at once. At once!’ he repeated earnestly as though this were an important point in the sentry’s favour. ‘It seems, according to what he told me, that he saw some children in my garden and chased them away, and, as they were running, they dropped the onions I found. Those could be kids from the village, of course.’

  ‘First I’ve heard of anybody from the village,’ Howe said in astonishment. ‘Did you see any kids around, padre?’

  ‘No,’ Father Michael admitted with some hesitation. ‘I didn’t, but that wouldn’t mean they weren’t there.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask him about that,’ said Howe. ‘It’s a point in his favour. Afraid it won’t make much difference though. Naturally, what we’re really concerned with is that he deserted his post. He could be shot for that, of course.’

  ‘Deserted his post?’ repeated Father Michael in consternation. This was worse than anything he had ever imagined. The wretched man might lose his life and for no other reason but his own evil temper. He felt he was being well punished for it. ‘How did he desert his post?’ he faltered.

  ‘Well, you caught him in your garden,’ Howe replied brusquely. ‘You see, padre, in that time the whole camp could have been surprised and taken.’

  In his distress, Father Michael nearly asked him not to talk nonsense. As if a military camp in the heart of England was going to be surprised while the sentry nipped into the next garden for a few onions! But that was the English all out. They had to reduce everything to the most literal terms.

  ‘Oh, hold on now!’ he said, raising a commanding hand. ‘I think there must be a mistake. I never said I caught him in the garden.’

  ‘No,’ Howe snapped irritably. ‘He said that. Didn’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Father Michael stubbornly, feeling that casuistry was no longer any use. ‘I did not. Are you quite sure that man is right in his head?’

  Fortunately, at this moment Elsie appeared with the coffee and Father Michael was able to watch her and the coffee-pot instead of Howe, who, he knew, was studying him closely. If he looked as he felt, he thought, he should be worth studying.

  ‘Thanks,’ Howe said, sitting back with his coffee-cup in his hand, and then went on remorselessly: ‘Am I to understand that you beat this chap up across the garden wall?’

  ‘Listen, my friend,’ Father Michael said desperately, ‘I tell you that fellow is never right in the head. He must be a hopeless neurotic. They get like that, you know. He’d never talk that way if he had any experience of being beaten up. I give you my word of honour it’s the wildest exaggeration. I don’t often raise my fist to a man, but when I do I leave evidence of it.’

  ‘I believe that,’ Howe said with a cheeky grin.

  ‘I admit I did threaten to knock this fellow’s head off,’ continued Father Michael, ‘but that was only when I thought he’d taken my onions.’ In his excitement he drew closer to Howe till he was standing over him, a big, bulky figure of a man, and suddenly he felt the tears in his eyes. ‘Between ourselves,’ he said emotionally, ‘I behaved badly. I don’t mind admitting that to you. He threatened to give me in charge.’

  ‘The little bastard!’ said Howe incredulously.

  ‘And he’d have been justified,’ the priest said earnestly. ‘I had no right whatever to accuse him without a scrap of evidence. I behaved shockingly.’

  ‘I shouldn’t let it worry me too much,’ Howe said cheerfully.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ said Father Michael brokenly. ‘I’m sorry to say the language I used was shocking. As a matter of fact, I’d made up my mind to aplogise to the man.’

  He stopped and returned to his chair. He was surprised to notice that he was almost weeping.

  ‘This is one of the strangest cases I’ve ever dealt with,’ Howe said. ‘I wonder if we’re not talking at cross purposes. This fellow you mean was tall and dark with a small moustache, isn’t that right?’

  For one moment Father Michael felt a rush of relief at the thought that after all it might be merely a case of mistaken identity. To mix it up a bit more was the first thought that came to his mind. He didn’t see the trap until it was too late.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said.

  ‘Listen, padre,’ Howe said, leaning forward in his chair while his long jaw suddenly shot up like a rat-trap, ‘why are you telling me all these lies?’

  ‘Lies?’ shouted Father Michael, flushing.

  ‘Lies, of course,’ said Howe without rancour. ‘Damned lies, transparent lies! You’ve been trying to fool me for the last ten minutes, and you very nearly succeeded.’

  ‘Ah, how could I remember?’ Father Michael said wearily. ‘I don’t attach all that importance to a few onions.’

  ‘I’d like to know what importance you attach to the rigmarole you’ve just told me,’ snorted Howe. ‘I presume you’re trying to shield Collins, but I’m blessed if I see why.’

  Father Michael didn’t reply. If Howe had been Irish, he wouldn’t have asked such a silly question, and as
he wasn’t Irish, he wouldn’t understand the answer. The MacEnerneys had all been like that. Father Michael’s father, the most truthful, Godfearing man in County Clare, had been threatened with a prosecution for perjury committed in the interest of a neighbour.

  ‘Anyway,’ Howe said sarcastically, ‘what really happened was that you came home, found your garden robbed, said “Good night” to the sentry, and asked him who did it. He said it was some kids from the village. Then you probably had a talk about the beautiful, beautiful moonlight. Now that’s done, what about coming up to the mess some night for dinner?’

  ‘I’d love it,’ Father Michael said boyishly. ‘I’m destroyed here for someone to talk to.’

  ‘Come on Thursday. And don’t expect too much in the way of grub. Our mess is a form of psychological conditioning for modern warfare. But we’ll give you lots of onions. Hope you don’t recognise them.’

  And he went off, laughing his harsh but merry laugh. Father Michael laughed too, but he didn’t laugh long. It struck him that the English had very peculiar ideas of humour. The interview with Howe had been anything but a joke. He had accused the sentry of lying, but his own attempts at concealing the truth had been even more unsuccessful than Collins’s. It did not look well from a priest. He rang up the convent and asked for Sister Margaret. She was his principal confidante.

  ‘Remember the sentry last night?’ he asked expressionlessly.

  ‘Yes, father,’ she said nervously. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s after being arrested.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, and then, after a long pause: ‘For what, father?’

  ‘Stealing my onions and being absent from duty. I had an officer here, making inquiries. It seems he might be shot.’

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘Isn’t that awful?’

  ‘’Tis bad.’

  ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Isn’t that the English all out? The rich can do what they like, but a poor man can be shot for stealing a few onions! I suppose it never crossed their minds that he might be hungry. What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You did right, I’d have told them a pack of lies.’

  ‘I did,’ said Father Michael.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘I don’t believe for an instant that ’tis a sin, father. I don’t care what anybody says. I’m sure ’tis an act of charity.’

  ‘That’s what I thought too,’ he said, ‘but it didn’t go down too well. I liked the officer, though. I’ll be seeing him again and I might be able to get round him. The English are very good like that, when they know you.’

  ‘I’ll start a novena at once,’ she said firmly.

  THE OLD FAITH

  IT WAS A GREAT DAY WHEN, on the occasion of the Pattern at Kilmulpeter, Mass was said in the ruined cathedral and the old Bishop, Dr Gallogly, preached. It was Father Devine, who was a bit of an antiquarian, who looked up the details of the life of St Mulpeter for him. There were a lot of these, mostly contradictory and all queer. It seemed that, like most of the saints of that remote period, St Mulpeter had put to sea on a flagstone and floated ashore in Cornwall. There, the seven harpers of the King had just been put to death through the curses of the Druids and the machinations of the King’s bad wife. St Mulpeter miraculously brought them all back to life, and, through the great mercy of God, they were permitted to sing a song about the Queen’s behaviour, which resulted in St Mulpeter’s turning her into a pillarstone and converting the King to the one true faith.

  The Bishop had once been Professor of Dogmatic Theology in a seminary; a subject that came quite naturally to him, for he was a man who would have dogmatised in any station of life. He was a tall, powerfully built, handsome old man with a face that was both long and broad, with high cheekbones that gave the lower half of his face an air of unnatural immobility but drew attention to the fine blue, anxious eyes that moved slowly and never far. He was a quiet man who generally spoke in a low voice, but with the emphasising effect of a pile-driver.

  For a dogmatic theologian, he showed great restraint on reading Father Devine’s digest of the saint’s life. He raised his brows a few times and then read it again with an air of resignation. ‘I suppose that’s what you’d call allegorical, father,’ he said gravely.

  He was a man who rarely showed signs of emotion. He seemed to be quite unaffected by the scene in the ruined cathedral, though it deeply impressed Father Devine, with the crowds of country people kneeling on the wet grass among the tottering crosses and headstones, the wild countryside framed in the mullioned windows, and the big, deeply moulded clouds drifting overhead. The Bishop disposed neatly of the patron by saying that though we couldn’t all go to sea on flagstones, a feat that required great faith in anyone who attempted it, we could all have the family Rosary at night.

  After Mass, Father Devine was showing the Bishop and some of the other clergy round the ruins, pointing out features of archaeological interest, when a couple of men who had been hiding in the remains of a twelfth-century chapel bolted. One of them stood on a low wall, looking down on the little group of priests with a scared expression. At once the Bishop raised his umbrella and pointed it accusingly at him.

  ‘Father Devine,’ he said in a commanding tone, ‘see what that fellow has.’

  ‘I have nothing, Your Eminence,’ wailed the man on the wall.’

  ‘You have a bottle behind your back,’ said the Bishop grimly. ‘What’s in that?’

  ‘Nothing, Your Eminence, only a drop of water from the Holy Well.’

  ‘Give it here to me till I see,’ ordered the Bishop, and when Father Devine passed him the bottle he removed the cork and sniffed.

  ‘Hah!’ he said with great satisfaction. ‘I’d like to see the Holy Well that came out of. Is it any use my preaching about poteen year in year out when ye never pay any attention to me?’

  ‘’Tis a cold, windy quarter, Your Eminence,’ said the man, ‘and I have the rheumatics bad.’

  ‘I’d sooner have rheumatics than cirrhosis,’ said the Bishop. ‘Bring it with you, father,’ he added to Devine, and stalked on with his umbrella pressed against his spine.

  The same night they all had dinner in the palace: Father Whelan, a dim-witted, good-natured old parish priest; his fiery Republican curate, Father Fogarty, who was responsible for the Mass in the ruined cathedral as he was for most other manifestations of life in that wild part, and Canon Lanigan. The Bishop and the Canon never got on, partly because the Canon was an obvious choice for the Bishop’s job and he and his supporters were giving it out that the Bishop was getting old and needed a coadjutor, but mainly because he gave himself so many airs. He was tall and thin, with a punchinello chin and a long nose, and let on to be an authority on Church history and on food and wine. That last was enough to damn anyone in the Bishop’s eyes, for he maintained almost ex cathedra that the best food and wine in the world were to be had on the restaurant car from Holyhead to Euston. The moment Lanigan got on to his favourite topic and mentioned Châteauneuf-du-Pape, the Bishop turned to Father Devine.

  ‘Talking about drink, father,’ he said with his anxious glare, ‘what happened the bottle of poteen you took off that fellow?’

  ‘I suppose it’s in the hall,’ said Father Devine. ‘I need hardly say I wasn’t indulging in it.’

  ‘You could indulge in worse,’ said the Bishop with a sideglance at the Canon. ‘There was many a good man raised on it. Nellie,’ he added, going so far as to turn his head a few inches, ‘bring in that bottle of poteen, wherever it is … You can have it with your tea,’ he added graciously to the Canon. ‘Or is it coffee you want?’

  ‘Oh, tea, tea,’ sighed the Canon, offering it up. He had a good notion what the Bishop’s coffee was like.

  When Nellie brought in the poteen, the Bishop took out the cork and sniffed it again with his worried look.

  ‘I hope ’tis all right,’ he said in his expressionless voice. ‘A pity we didn’t find out who made it. When they can’t get the rye, they
make it out of turnips or any old thing.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it, my lord,’ said Devine with his waspish air.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ said the Bishop. ‘Didn’t I make it myself? My poor father – God rest him! – had a still of his own. But I didn’t taste it in something like sixty years.’

  He poured them out a stiff glass each and drank off his own in a gulp, without the least change of expression. Then he looked at the others anxiously to see how they responded. Lanigan made a wry face; as a member of the Food and Wine Society he probably felt it was expected of him. Father Fogarty drank it as if it were altar wine, but he was a nationalist and only did it on principle. Father Devine disgraced himself: spluttered, choked, and then went petulantly off to the bathroom.

  Meanwhile the Bishop, who decided that it wasn’t bad, was treating his guests to another round, which they seemed to feel it might be disrespectful to refuse. Father Devine did refuse, and with a crucified air that the Bishop didn’t like. The Bishop, who like all bishops, knew everything and had one of the most venomously gossipy tongues in the diocese, was convinced that he was a model of Christian charity and had spoken seriously to Father Devine about his sharpness.

  ‘Was it on an island you made this stuff?’ the Canon asked blandly.

  ‘No,’ replied the Bishop, who always managed to miss the point of any remark that bordered on subtlety. ‘A mountain.’

  ‘Rather desolate, I fancy,’ Lanigan said dreamily.

  ‘It had to be if you didn’t want the police coming down on top of you,’ said the Bishop. ‘They’d have fifty men out at a time, searching the mountains.’

  ‘And bagpipes,’ said the Canon, bursting into an old woman’s cackle as he thought of the hilly road from Beaune to Dijon with the vineyards at each side. ‘It seems to go with bagpipes.’

  ‘There were no bagpipes,’ the Bishop said contemptuously. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he continued with quiet satisfaction, ‘it was very nice up there on a summer’s night, with the still in a hollow on top of the mountain, and the men sitting round the edges, talking and telling stories. Very queer stories some of them were,’ he added with an old man’s complacent chuckle.