He pegged her with a level stare and went on, “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
“Of course not. And you didn’t. Your world is secure.”
She decided he had forfeit his right to her hospitality.
He nodded thoughtfully. She could see he had not finished with her. She said nothing and sat quietly, glancing from the priest to the pier, to the sky, to the islands, to the tiny dot on the horizon. She was certain it had moved since she had seen it first. She squinted hard. It was a boat all right. Her heart skipped. Sean? Coming home perhaps? The thought cheered her and she felt she could tolerate the man next to her for another while.
“I suppose,” he said, and his voice had dropped the friendliness, “that my world, as much as anyone’s can be, is secure.”
He followed her stare to the horizon, but wasn’t looking. He was reflecting. She was listening now. This was not the genial or bombastic young priest. It was if he was thinking out loud, not caring whether she heard, or liked, what he had to say.
“But there are those among us who have tougher worlds. Who knows what real insecurity is? And by that, I don’t mean security in the normal things of bread and tea and meals and a nice house! No, I’m talking about security of life. I mean day-to-day survival on earth as a living human being. If there’s a roof over your head, you’re one of the lucky ones.”
“What are you getting at?” She spoke quietly, but frost and challenge were clear in her voice.
“I’m talking about poverty, Eileen.”
Before she could stop herself, she leaned back, inclined her head so she could see the new Toyota parked outside her gate. The car wasn’t a year old and had ferried the priest to many a sumptuous social occasion during its short life. She sat back again, regarded his pink and ample jowls, the comfortable folds of flesh on the man’s neck, the distension of his stomach. She thought of his vows; she wondered about his chastity. She thought of her own youth and, more feelingly, of Doyle’s. That was poverty. That had been barefoot, six to a room, lack of food, deprivation. She remembered her husband’s rags that passed for clothes when he was a boy. She remembered him bringing her mother groceries. Getting a meal in payment. She thought of the hours he’d spent on the boats as a youngster, how he had studied to read and write while still working to help his parents. She looked at the priest with curious attention.
“That’s interesting, Father.”
The priest heard the tone in her voice, saw her eyes, felt her judgment. He nodded slightly.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m not without knowing how tough things were for you in your youth. And even more so for Sean. I know that. And I know what you’re thinking. You look outside and see the car; you look at me and you see a well-fed person. You see complete clothes. Not old. No holes. No darns in the socks. And the heels on my shoes are fine too.”
He raised his eyebrows in a hint of the comic effect he used in his Sunday sermons.
“But poverty doesn’t mean unkempt destitution.”
His voice hovered on the edge of his pulpit-preaching style. The performance habit was too strong to drop when he started to argue, or wanted to convince.
Eileen felt a slight relief at his more familiar style. This she could cope with. The cold and dispassionate statements earlier had alerted her. If she distrusted the man as he spoke to her now, and disliked his deviousness, she respected it, and was not about to underestimate him. His smile was gone, but his look was unwavering.
“In my work, I deal with people from all walks of life. I comfort the poor and needy, the indigent, the people who don’t know how to help themselves. And I go and I beg on their behalf and in the name of Christ from those who can afford it.”
He smiled, and there was no deceit in his face now. “Of course, I often get corrected about a state of affairs, financial or otherwise.”
He nodded and added modestly,
“You’d know about that, of course.”
She was surprised by his frank reference to her previous castigation of him.
“I’m not asking you for anything,” he said. “You or your husband. Anything material, that is.”
He took a quick breath.
“But perhaps you might be able to help some other people. In another way, that is. There is no involvement, no commitment on your part.”
He looked at her openly, the first time she had ever seen him do so.
“I have been informed of a benefaction that is in the country and which is waiting to be used for charitable purposes. It is a considerable sum. The only one who can help in its location is Steven.”
Eileen froze.
The young priest put his hand up and went on,
“Please! Don’t be alarmed. Or offended. Steven has done good before. He is not the callous criminal the media makes him out to be. He is basically a good man. As all men are. But there are circumstances which bring out the worst, or the best, in all of us.”
Eileen asked,
“Steven? My brother? Charity?”
Her eyes were wide, her breathing fast and shallow.
“Yes,” the priest nodded. “Steven has done many questionable things.”
“Questionable?”
“Things that are frowned on by society and which are wrong in themselves.”
“Wrong in themselves?”
Her voice was clearer, but high with incredulity.
“What are you saying? That Steven is some kind of Robin Hood? Robs the rich and helps the poor? Is a good boy at heart?”
She caught her breath and spoke in a sigh.
“God!”
She leaned forward and spoke softly, the tremor of her emotions shuddering in her words.
“That, Father Tom, would have been lovely for my mom and dad, if that was how you spoke to them before they passed on. And I — no, we, my husband, my brother and I, thank you. It probably allowed them sanity in their final years and made their lives bearable. But please, not me! Steven is a crook. He has killed people. He uses humans and their needs like a shopkeeper uses his goods. He deals in people. They’re a means to his ends.”
She gathered her energies and carried on.
“You know he has escaped? You know why? He may or may not be involved with the Provos. I don’t know. But he is a gun-toting killer and a bad man, Father Tom. And because some of the people in this village are involved, they don’t talk about him as a criminal, and everyone else is afraid to. That doesn’t mean he’s something else! Make no mistake on that point, my dear Father!”
She finished with a whimper of derision.
“Charity! God!”
The following silence was sharp. With persistence, the priest went on.
“As I said, there is a benefaction, a sum available for charitable purposes. Steven has helped the poor before.”
He touched her wrist.
“He is a good man at heart. He has done good things as well as bad.”
He sat up again.
“And who, Eileen, who in this world is all good and all bad? There is a reason for everything…”
She cut in.
“Of course! You’re right! What would the police do for employment without the likes of Steven and Larry Maguire? Aren’t they wonderful to be so thoughtful and considerate?”
The priest answered slowly.
“These men have their own problems. They have their own ideals and it is they who have to live with their consciences.”
He stopped abruptly.
Eileen felt something more than just a fear of the way the conversation was going. His words suggested to her that her fears were founded. His sudden silence alarmed her more than what he had said, as if he knew he was talking too much. And only a man who has something to hide becomes hesitant of his own speech.
The priest gave a hint of a smile and began to talk again. He was like a man who had shown his hand and wasn’t sure whether anyone else at the game had seen it. The intent had left his conversation and he was filling
time. He had dropped the subject, given up trying to convince her of anything. Eileen fell in with his talk of the crowd at the pier, the sickness of the boys, how quick and remarkable their recovery had been. She glanced at the sea, at the boat. It definitely was a boat. And it must be Sean. She yearned for him to be near so they could make a decision: either tell the priest about Steven or not. She wondered how much Father Tom knew. Did he know Steven had been on the boat? What benefaction was he talking about? Was it money Steven had been given for some purpose of charity? Money he had stolen? Her mind strayed off, only to trip over and aimlessly trot around the one question of why the priest had approached her. She didn’t know. After her mention of Maguire and the priest’s curious reaction, she was no longer sure she wanted to know.
“…other people to see,” the priest said and made movements of leaving: standing, remarking on the fine view and generally talking in terms of no consequence. Eileen had the surprising feeling it was she who was being dismissed. He walked slowly to the door, passing inane remarks on the weather. At the door, he turned and said,
“I’d like to call again when Sean is here. We can talk. I promise you, as I’ve already said, that there is no commitment on your part.”
By his assurance, she knew, more than at any time in the last hour, that she did have something to worry about.
Chapter Fifteen
There was not one fisherman in Rinnemor who did not savour the trip home into the harbour. It was different every time. Currents, tides, winds and waves always varied the trip to the coast. After hard work, there was the reward of rest. The sea moves. The land does not.
So every time a vessel came home, the view of the land was different. Some things stood out from the general mass. There was the church, with a head on one end and a short back, like a toy dog. There was the large white house on the hill, at first like the letter “L,” then like an incongruous huge toilet in the middle of the country. And there was the village itself, a huddle of irregularities, lumps and gaps, becoming houses and little streets.
It was at that time, as the places began to distinguish themselves, that the sailors’ minds began to change, to accept the facts of land, to remember a world existed other than sea and nets and fish and engines and waves and unceasing work. There was a point, about a mile and a half from the coast, where the sea changed tempo. It was an unwritten law of the fleet that preparations for landing began only at this point.
Doyle watched the three young men on the deck in front of him. There are ways, he thought, which tell you things about a man. It does not often show in what he does. It shows in how he does it. There were men who could bend their backs, haul nets, box up fish and lift pots all day, and that would be as much as you could ask of any man. And there were fellows who would appear to be doing it — who would be there, in front of you, and you knew damn well that, if it weren’t for your orders and your supervision, nothing, absolutely nothing, would be the end result of a day’s work.
It wasn’t just effort, he decided, it was attitude. For a twenty-five year old, McCann had a good head on his shoulders. He had thrown himself into the activity, effectively running the operation on the deck. He was a natural leader. Even now, as Doyle watched him, it was McCann who directed the other two where to stand and be ready to fend off the other boats. Doyle watched Wills, another tryer. As he looked at Pritchard, he realised what the difference was between the first two and him. McCann and Wills were willing, their actions eager and concerned. They checked knots, fastenings and coils when they had completed them. Nothing was too much trouble. When they finished one job, they were on to the next. Attacking it. There was the difference. Pritchard moved with an air of reluctance. He lingered over a job; gave it half-hearted attention.
The Stella Maris was driving hard. They had a small catch on board, enough for any curious on-lookers when they docked.
Doyle was glad to see the pier, glad he was coming home. He was relieved to be finished with Cullen. Oh, he knew he would’ve helped him again in a similar spot. But it was time Cullen got sense. There was no future in his life. There might be quick money, thought Doyle, but once you’re in, you can never get out of it.
The idea of always having to look over your shoulder, forever on guard in case the past sneaked up, did not appeal to him. A certain type of worry he could deal with. A calculated, carefully considered, minimised risk. But that was a risk worth taking. He felt cheered. It was a good, invigorating thought. Life looked good. The boat was fine. The little bit of fishing they’d done to justify their absence from the harbour had shown her potential.
He steered the drifting Stella through the mouth of the harbour. Within minutes he had her alongside the two fishing boats at the end of the pier. He was getting the feel of her very well.
A small knot of people watched the boat come to dock. It seemed to Doyle to be quiet, even for a Monday. All that would be changed one day, he thought, and one not too far away either. Soon the processes of freezing, canning and storing fish would open their market, make fishing an industrial force. He leaned forward and slid the glass front open. Hoping to hear what McCann and Pritchard were saying to each other, he put his head slightly sideways. Prichard was hunched aggressively, wagging a finger like a man delivering a warning or an ultimatum. McCann was standing straight, looking calm and steady, but alert, ready to move. They would have to forget their personal differences and get on with the job in hand. Doyle shouted through the windshield, “Peter! Peter McCann, get up here now!” Pritchard glanced up at the sudden interruption and glared hard for a moment at Doyle, then turned and went to the cabin hatch. Wearily, McCann moved to the wheel-cabin.
“Everything tied down? All the gear stowed?” asked Doyle. “Cabins and bunks shipshape and ready to sail tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, sir,” replied McCann. “Everything done as you’ve directed, bar one. That’s the fuel and oil checking and the watch rota for tomorrow night.”
“Why hasn’t it been done?”
“Well, sir, it was about to be when you called me.” Gulls wheeled in the harbour sky. A punt pulled across the water and the voices from the people on the pier drifted in through the open window. Doyle looked hard at McCann, watching him as he asked the next question.
“Was there a problem on the deck with you and Seamus?”
McCann hesitated.
“It was nothing, sir. I suggested to Seamus that, if he checked the oil and petrol, I’d do the rota. I think he took it as if I was trying to order him.”
“And were you?” The blue eyes looked steadily at McCann.
He hadn’t really thought about it.
“I dunno, sir. Maybe I was. Then he mentioned Wally and how he’d make that look like a practise if I didn’t mind myself.”
“Wally? Practise? What’s that about?”
“I thought you knew. He said he’d told you last night when he came aboard. It was Wally he’d been fighting with up at Bannion’s.”
Doyle stood up straight.
“There must be some mistake. You mean Seamus and Wally had a fight? Are you serious, for Christ’s sake? Wally Malone is so soaked, the only injury he could do to anyone is to himself.”
He paused, eyes narrowed, and asked,
“What happened? Do you know?”
“Not really. Seamus said Wally was slagging him and forced him out and that Wally started the whole thing. He wouldn’t leave him alone.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, from what Seamus says, Wally’s had a bit of a hiding. I don’t know, sir, but I’ll be finding out.”
“Yes, right, Peter. Go do the rota. Tell T.J. to check the petrol and oil, then tell Seamus to come and see me before he goes ashore.”
“Yes, sir.
The young man left. Doyle watched him stride along the deck. There was a lot he liked about him.
Doyle felt he’d had enough. He had his own life to lead and a ship to run. He’d done his bit, helped those in trouble
when they needed it. It was time people started pulling their own weight. He was fed up with the likes of his brother-in-law and the rest who thought that the world owed them a living. Doyle closed the window of the wheel-house, watching the few people drifting off, stopping by the fishboxes containing his catch. Pritchard arrived at the door. Doyle told him to come in and shut the door behind him. He looked at Pritchard. They were the same height, but Doyle was more heavily muscled.
“We’re going out tomorrow at five. Be here, ready to sail, in your working gear. Last night was the second time in ten days you got on board just in time.”
He stopped and sighed, knowing he was talking to Pritchard the way he wanted to talk to Cullen and Gustav, and all the others like them in the world who interfered in other’s lives just to get their own way. Pritchard was really no worse than any young fellow who wasn’t sure what was happening in his life.
His tone softened.
“Just try to be on time. You were never late before last night.”
The younger man stared at him sullenly.
“You look as if you’ve something on your mind,” said Doyle.
Pritchard shifted, stuck his thumbs in his pants pockets and managed a slouch. He had a talent for it, thought Doyle.
“Tis been the same for the last month, Sean. You’ve been finding fault with me since Peter’s been pushin’ himself. You know I always do my work. I get on with it. I wasn’t even late on the two times you’re talkin’ about. You’re givin’ out to me because I was nearly late.”
Doyle didn’t want this to become a confrontation, or degenerate into an argument.
“It’s not the fact that you were nearly late, Seamus. I know as well as you do that you were on time, but only just, and, quite frankly, you didn’t give a damn, or that seemed to be your attitude.”
Doyle was in command now.
“I’m aware of the fact that you work well.”
Short Storm Page 8