by Babs Horton
“Miss Carmichael and Miss Drew would never sleep at night! I’m serious, though. I have more than enough money for my needs. I’ll get the cash to you tomorrow.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“A simple yes will do. The third problem is one of accommodation, which is harder to solve, but I have every faith in you, John. Now lefs see if you can solve a hypothetical mystery for me…”
“Fire away!”
“A man receives an unexpected present.”
Solly paused.
“Through the post?” Father Daley asked.
“No. The, er, present arrives on his doorstep in the dead of night.”
“So someone actually brings the man a present in person.”
“Not exactly. The present arrives but the sender of the present is nowhere to be seen.”
“Ah? So you want to find out the identity of the sender?”
“Yes, but there are no clues except a sort of gift tag on the present itself.”
“And it says?”
“Just the man’s name and address.”
“Does the man recognize the handwriting?”
“No.”
Father Daley scratched his head.
“The sender of the present doesn’t contact you to make sure the present has arrived?”
“No. No word from the sender.”
“So the mystery sender doesn’t want you to know who they are?”
“So it would seem.”
“Is the present a valuable one?”
“Like a good woman, priceless.”
“Does the nature of the present give any clues as to who the sender is, you know, is it maybe a romantic gift?”
“Most definitely not a romantic gift.” Solly smiled bashfully.
“Am I allowed to know what the gift was?”
“Not at the moment it being a hypothetical mystery.”
“Well, all I can suggest is that you check to see whether anyone was seen arriving at your house in the dead of night. Time may well reveal an answer.”
“Yes indeed. More whiskey?”
With their glasses refilled they sat together in the firelight, talking about all kinds of things until, glancing at his watch, Father Daley said he had to go. He was about to step out of the door when he said, “Is that yours?” He pointed to the small brown suitcase that was standing against the wall.
“No, it, er, belongs to, er, an old friend of mine.”
“Well, remember when we were on the beach I was telling you about the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela?”
“I do.”
“See all those stickers on the side of the case? Most of those are the major towns on the route to Santiago.”
Solly looked down at the suitcase with interest.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. It’s long been a dream of mine to go to Santiago, though I don’t suppose I ever shall. Anyway, as I said before, I am a mine of useless information.”
Solly smiled.
“Well, good night, Solly, and thank you for everything. I only hope I can help you out some day.”
“You already have,” said Solly.
Father Daley stepped out into the cold night and set off down the drive. He was filled for the first time in many days with hope. There was a spring in his step and a great deal of whiskey in his belly as he staggered along Mankey’s Alley towards home.
Donahue was about to shut up for the night when Michael Leary the schoolmaster came in through the door.
“Am I too late for a drink?” he asked.
“Never let it be said that it’s too early or too late to get a drink in Donahue’s. What would you like?”
“Whiskey, I think. Something to warm the cockles of my heart it’s nippy out there tonight.”
“The weather’s changeable at the moment. Let’s hope it calms down a bit before the Ballygurry pilgrims set off. I had Miss Drew and Miss Carmichael in here today. Miss Carmichael bought that many tins of food to take with them they’ll need a cure for the backache by the time they carry them all the way to Lourdes.”
Mr Leary grinned, took off his glasses and cleaned them.
“I don’t know why they bother. The food is grand abroad.”
“Can’t say I fancy it myself, bits of frog and snails, for God’s sake. Who in their right mind would want to eat that kind of shite?”
“Ah, Marty, don’t listen to all you hear. Travel broadens both the mind and the palate.”
“Anyhow, did you hear the talk about the Black Jew?”
“No.”
“They reckon he has a woman shacked up in the house with him, the dirty lucky old beggar.”
“What’s so dirty about that? I wouldn’t mind one myself.”
“I thought you had a young woman abroad?” Donahue said.
“Sore point, Marty, she’s stopped replying to my letters.”
Donahue leaned across the bar and whispered even though there was no one else there.
“A fancy piece from Cork so they say.”
“Well good for him.”
“Michael, the man is a heathen and the talk is that she’s a good Catholic girl.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No, but he buys her chocolate eclairs and coconut macaroons, to keep her strength up I suppose. Oh, and scented soap by all accounts.”
Mr Leary scratched his head. He wasn’t quite in tune with Donahue’s logic.
“Well, Michael, how is the schoolmastering going? Rather you than me. I couldn’t stand being cooped up all day long with all those snotty-nosed little buggers.”
“It’s a great job, Marty, and remember you and I were snot-nosed little sods once upon a time.”
“Suppose so. Fancy they’re taking that Padraig whatshis name on the pilgrimage.”
“O’Mally. He’s a grand little lad.”
“Ah, is he now? Well, they’ll all need a rest cure after a fortnight with him.”
“He’s just very bright that’s all and a bit lively.”
“Ah, brains can be dangerous on that sort.”
“Marty, what sort are you referring to?”
“Well, he could get above himself. People need to know their station in life.”
“That’s bollocks and you know it. I’ll have another whiskey and one for yourself.”
“Thanks. Well, from what I’ve seen of him serve the Australians right. They’ll have to cope with his brains and good riddance.”
“What Australians?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“They’re going to start shipping them out. Make a new life for themselves down under.”
“Who?”
“The orphans.”
“Has anyone asked them if they want to go?”
“You don’t ask kids, Michael, you tell them. You should know that being a schoolmaster.”
“That’s disgraceful. You can’t ship kids to the other side of the world and then just dump them.”
“The church can, and you take heed, they will. There’s talk that St Joseph’s will become an old people’s home. Less trouble and more money to be made if you ask me. Not that they need the money, there’s a lot of money comes into that place.”
“You wouldn’t think so from the way they treat those kids. They reckon the food is disgusting.”
“Ah well, you don’t want to be feeding them orphans up; they’re enough trouble when they’re skinny. Big strong ones would be a nightmare.”
“Marty, you’re full of shite. How do you mean about the money?”
“Well, years ago there were a couple of rich old biddies living there. Separate from the orphans like, had their own rooms and that. You used to only see them at mass, sitting at the back between a couple of nuns acting like bodyguards. A bit simple the pair of old girls were.”
“What were they doing at St Joseph’s?”
“The talk was that they were both from wealthy families. A
foreigner one of them was, from Italy. They were an embarrassment to the families, a bit on the wild side, like. The one used to lift up her skirts, show her drawers, you know, a bit gone in the head.”
“That’s disgraceful.”
“Ah no, Michael, she couldn’t help it.”
“No, I don’t mean that it was disgraceful that she pulled up her clothes. I mean the families packing the handicapped off, hiding them out of the way.”
“It made good sense, if you ask me. They used to pay a lot of money for them to be looked after, and when the parents died their share of the family inheritance went to the nuns.”
“Dear God, what sort of world do we live in? I wouldn’t put a dog in the care of that lot of old bitches.”
“Michael, you shouldn’t talk like that about the sisters. They’re good women, the brides of Christ and all that.”
“Look, Marty, I have good memories of the nuns that taught me, they were a kind lot, but that Sister Veronica and her snivelly-nosed little sidekick are two nasty bits of work.”
“Sister Veronica is a very educated woman, Michael.”
“She’s a bigoted old cow.”
“I’ve heard she comes from a well-to-do family.”
“They must have been glad to be shot of her.”
“Between ourselves and not a word, mind, I heard there was a man involved before she took the veil,” Donahue whispered.
“What? Never to God.”
“That’s what they say. A failed romance. You have to feel sorry for her.”
“I don’t Whoever the fellow was had a lucky escape, if you ask me.”
“You’re a hard man, Michael Leary.”
“I am that. Marty, can you hear singing?”
Donahue cocked his head on one side.
“I can.”
Michael Leary crossed to the window and looked out.
“Come and look at this, Marty. Thisll set the old spinsters’ tongues wagging.”
Donahue lifted the bar flap and walked across to the window.
“Dear God, Father Behenna was bad enough but would you look at the state on him.”
“As pissed as the proverbial pudding.”
And they stood side by side watching Father Daley lurching out of Mankey’s Alley and along Clancy Street towards the presbytery.
Fadraig was down on the beach looking for signs of life in the rock pools when he heard Mr Leary call out to him. He turned round, waved and smiled as Mr Leary came down through the sand dunes towards him.
“How are you doing, Padraig?”
“Not so bad, sir, and yourself?”
“Grand. Are you looking forward to the pilgrimage? It’s not long now.”
“Not really, sir.”
“I thought you’d be pleased to be going.”
“Oh, I mean I’m not ungrateful or anything it’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Ah, nothing, sir.”
“You can tell me, Padraig, I’m a good man with a secret.”
“Well, the thing is, sir, people go to Lourdes to be cured, right?”
“So they say.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with me, sir, I’m not a cripple, deaf or dumb and I don’t have a terrible disease or anything. I’ve nothing to be cured of.”
Mr Leary threw back his head and laughed.
“The thing is, though, Padraig, at least you’ve the chance to travel a bit You’ll see a million things you’ve never seen before.”
“I know, but look at the company 111 be keeping, Miss Drew and Miss Carmichael!”
“Father Daley seems a nice sort though. Perhaps with a bit of luck the two old biddies will find a cure for the miseries while you’re out there.”
Padraig grinned and nodded his head.
“You must take a camera with you and show me the photographs when you come back.”
“I don’t have one, sir.”
“Well, I can help you out there. I’ve a spare one that you can have. Maybe you could even do a bit of painting and drawing while you’re there. Do you do much drawing at St Joseph’s?”
“No, sir, Sister Agatha says it’s a waste of time and I’d be better off learning to paint walls and ceilings for a living.”
Mr Leary spat in disgust.
“Take no notice, Padraig; what does she know? You could maybe do some sketches and keep a scrapbook while you’re away.”
“That would be great. Sir, do you remember when I was looking at your scrapbook, you said you’d tell me the story of the lost Irish virgin.”
“Ah, now that is a very complicated story.”
“You did promise though.”
“I did indeed. Well, here goes. Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a great artist who painted a famous picture of the Virgin Mary. You can still see the painting in a museum in France. Anyhow, a few years later he was commissioned to sculpt a statue of the Holy Virgin. It was the most beautiful statue, by all accounts. The statue was based upon the painting and it was crafted in gold with jewels encrusted all over it.”
“Was it worth a lot?”
“Priceless. Anyway, the long and the short of it was that the statue was sent as a gift to the people of Santiago de Compostela in the north of Spain. It was entrusted to the care of a group of Irish monks, who set sail from Ireland. When they arrived in Spain they made their way on foot towards Santiago de Compostela, as the pilgrims did in those days. But the story has it that somewhere along the way one of the monks gave the others the slip and made off with the statue. It was never ever seen again.”
“What about the monk, sir?”
“Disappeared off the face of the earth. Never heard from again.”
“What do you think happened to the statue?”
“Well, that’s the mystery, Padraig. Nothing was ever heard of it again until a short while ago.”
“What, they found it?”
“Not the statue, no, but some jewels were discovered.”
“Where, sir?”
“That’s the strange thing, Padraig. In Paris.”
“How do you think they got there, sir?”
“God only knows after all this time. But if we were able to find out where the jewels came from, then we could be on our way to unearthing a mystery from the past.”
“Who found the jewels, sir?”
“They were sold to a pawnbroker who didn’t immediately realize their worth, but luckily he got in contact with a fellow he knew, a historian.”
“Wow!”
“Now this may be a wild goose chase but one can’t help being excited.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem though, are they, sir? Perhaps the poor old monk didn’t really steal the statue, sir. Maybe the other monks did and they put the blame on him. Maybe they picked out the jewels and melted down the statue and came back to Ireland.”
“You think he was innocent then, Padraig?”
“Could have been. They might have done him in so he couldn’t spill the beans.”
“They could have indeed.”
“Do you want to find the statue so that you’ll be rich, sir?”
“No. I expect if the statue was found then it would belong to the church. The reason that I want to find out the truth is that the monk who ran off with it was one of my distant ancestors.”
“Honest to God?”
“Honest injun, Padraig. I found out when I was researching my family tree. So you see I come from a long line of criminals, all of them probably with bad eyesight to boot.”
Padraig laughed.
“Won’t it be hard trying to find out about something that happened so long ago?”
“Undoubtedly. Impossible, I expect, but I am not a logical man, Padraig. I am a deluded romantic who also likes to think himself something of a Sherlock Holmes.”
“Perhaps I could be your Dr Watson.”
“Indeed, Padraig, indeed.”
At morning break Siobhan Hanlon cornered Padraig against
the wall in the schoolyard.
“If it’s a kiss you’re after, I’ve sold out,” Padraig said.
Siobhan grinned a gappy-toothed grin.
“Well now, Mister Big-head O’Mally, it’s not a kiss I’m wanting from you, so there.”
“That makes a change. What is it then?”
“I know a secret that you don’t know.”
“What secret?”
“It’s a secret, daft arse, so I can’t tell you.”
“Well, if you’re not going to tell me, then push off and play hopscotch or something.”
Siobhan turned her back on him. She walked a few steps across the playground then turned round and said, “You know everyone says that the Black Jew has a woman in his house, well that’s not true.”
“So what?”
“He has a little child hidden there. I know because I’ve seen her.”
Padraig raced across the playground towards her and slapped his hand across her mouth.
“SHHHH! Siobhan, don’t tell the whole bloody school!”
Siobhan sniffed up the smell of his skin. Tree bark and dandelions, powder paint and pencil shavings. She tried to speak through his hand but he kept it clamped fast over her mouth and she was glad, she didn’t want him to let her go.
“If I take my hand away, Siobhan, will you promise to shut your big gob?”
Finally, in fear of suffocating, she nodded.
“Siobhan, come over here with me in the corner.”
She went with him willingly.
“Listen, Siobhan, how did you find out about the little girl?”
“It was the night of the terrible storm. I was standing by the window watching. Well, you know that glass thing on the top of his house, well the lightning came and lit it all up and I saw a little girl up there dancing around like a mad thing, like a ballerina with a squib up her arse. Honest to God, Padraig. She was leaping about like a simpleton.”
“I believe you, but she’s not simple.”
“Do you think he’s keeping her a prisoner, Padraig?”
“Don’t be soft.”
“Father Daley told Mammy that when he was in the Dark Wood he heard a child scream. Perhaps the Black Jew steals children the way tinkers do.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he eats them for breakfast.”
“For God’s sake, Siobhan, who’s simple now?”
Siobhan blushed.