by Babs Horton
Mr Leary took a long swig of his wine and was silent for some minutes thinking of what Siobhan had told him on the telephone.
She’d read out to him parts of the rambling letters that she said she’d found in the cupboard in St Joseph’s, and it had been obvious from the letters that there was a mystery regarding Padraig’s birth. For a start, why would his mother have changed her name and why was she running away? What did the pair of them have to hide?
Then Father Daley said, “It’s a small world, isn’t it? Brother Bernardo up at Santa Eulalia was telling us that there was an Irish fellow, wounded in the war, who’s buried in the graveyard there.”
“Is there, by God? Father Daley, can you remember his name by any chance?” Leary said, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.
“I can. The funny thing is I seem to remember that the mention of his name worried Nancy, she went very quiet at the time.”
“What was the name?” Michael Leary could hardly contain his excitement.
“George Fitzallen.” Father Daley enunciated the words clearly.
The name meant nothing to Leary but he was aware that Donahue had dropped his fork with a clatter and his mouth was hanging open with shock.
“Do you know the name, Marty?”
Donahue pulled himself up. He didn’t want to say too much, didn’t want to compromise Nancy Carmichael.
“Sure, well I didn’t know him, just heard of him, like.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Just that he and his family lived in a grand house called Kilgerry over Rossmacconnarty way. And that he was sent away in disgrace over a woman or something.”
“Well, the poor bugger didn’t make it back, anyhow,” Leary said.
Donahue had gone very quiet and Leary gave him a sideways glance. Donahue knew more than he was letting on, that was for sure. He could be a deep bugger when he had a mind to it.
Donahue was thinking that life really was most odd at times. Whoever would have thought that one of the Fitzallens would end up buried in the middle of Spain? No wonder Nancy had gone quiet at the mention of his name, but obviously she hadn’t said anything. Well, sure as eggs he wasn’t going to give anything away to anyone.
Leary pondered on the fact that in the letters Siobhan had read to him there’d also been a mention of Padraig’s father making his way to Santa Eulalia. Was it possible that this George Fitzallen was Padraig’s father? Leary made a rapid calculation. Padraig was ten going on eleven now. The dates fitted near enough. The poor bugger could have been on his way home to see his lover and his child but never got there. Why had Nancy Carmichael gone quiet at the mention of his name? Why had Brother Anselm thought that Nancy was Padraig’s mother?
Anyhow, if the fellow buried up at the monastery could be proved to be Padraig’s father then surely the boy was entitled to know who his father was and where he was buried. He’d have to talk to Father Daley on the quiet later and see what he thought about it all. – He smiled across at Padraig. The boy was looking a damn sight better than when he’d last seen him. He was glowing with health and his once pale skin was peppered with freckles. It was a bloody shame they’d have to break the news about Sister Immaculata and ruin his happiness, but if they didn’t one of them was bound to let it slip and that would be worse.
“Don’t look now,” Donahue whispered, “but I don’t think those two nuns who’ve been serving us are quite right in the head. The one nearly threw the chickens down our throats and the other one is staring through the crack in the kitchen door and looking at us as if we’re from another planet.”
Leary looked up quickly but as he did the nun bobbed down out of sight.
“She’s probably never seen such a handsome fellow as yourself, Donahue. She’s no doubt thinking of renouncing the veil at this very moment.”
“Do you reckon?” asked Donahue.
No one answered him for at that moment Padraig’s glass clattered on to the table and he fell into a delicious and inebriated sleep.
Father Daley carried Padraig up to their room, tucked him up in bed and returned downstairs where Michael Leary told him about Sister Immaculata’s suicide.
Later, as he lay in bed listening to the winds buffeting the convent, he thought about that day at St Joseph’s when he’d opened the cupboard door in Sister Veronica’s study and seen Sister Immaculata and Padraig crouched down together. He could picture her face as she had grinned at him wickedly, winked and put her finger up to her lips.
Looking back she seemed a feisty old thing, not the type to give up on life and do away with herself. He remembered, too, the look of terror on Padraig’s face.
God, he hadn’t liked the nuns at St Joseph’s one little bit. He didn’t relish the thought of returning Padraig to the sisters, but he knew that he’d have to. That poor little sod would be bundled off to Australia. Hell, life was hopelessly cruel sometimes.
Donahue stayed down in the dining room for a long time after the others had gone up to bed. Sitting there alone he felt quite depressed thinking about his eventual return to Ballygurry. He’d have to go back, though, there was no doubt about that. He had no other way of supporting himself and he didn’t even speak the language over here. Everything that he owned was tied up back in Ballygurry; it was where he belonged, he supposed.
His thoughts turned then to Nancy Carmichael. Fancy, all these years she’d been a devout spinster and now she was having a fling with some Spanish fellow. Well, she might as well enjoy herself while she could, she’d soon be back in St Bridget’s polishing pews and dusting the statues.
By now, Miss Drew would have done the rounds of Ballygurry and Nancy Carmichael’s long-guarded secret would be common knowledge.
Ah well, he thought, he’d better get to bed, they’d a long journey ahead of them tomorrow. He climbed the stairs and began to make his way along the corridor. Halfway along he stopped in his tracks. A shadowy figure was bent double outside the room he was sharing with Michael Leary. And if he wasn’t much mistaken they were looking through the keyhole!
A floorboard creaked beneath his feet. The figure outside the door stiffened, looked round towards where Donahue stood.
Donahue stood stock-still. Jesus! It was one of those queer bloody nuns. Peeking through keyholes wasn’t a very holy thing to be doing, surely to God.
Suddenly the nun stood up and hurried along the corridor in his direction. Donahue shrank back into the shadows as the grinning nun passed him, oblivious to his presence. Crossing himself, he scurried along the corridor, let himself into the room and locked the door.
Michael Leary stood at the window for a long time looking out over the rooftops of the town. He had been both fascinated and horrified at the news that Nancy Carmichael had been shot. And it was bloody odd that she’d been down near the Blue Madonna, the same place he’d been when he’d been shot at.
And what the hell did Brother Anselm have against the child Padraig? He didn’t go along with the view that Brother Anselm was merely senile. He was a wily old bugger.
Why had Brother Anselm thought that Nancy was Padraig’s mother? And what treasures could they possibly be after? The monks at Santa Eulalia were on the bones of their arse.
He yawned then and undressed. He spent five minutes doing his nightly exercises. Then he slipped naked beneath the freshly starched sheets of his bed moments before Donahue came stumbling into the room.
Solly sat for a long time on the edge of Dancey’s bed stroking her head until her eyes closed and she drifted into a deep sleep.
He wondered if tomorrow they’d finally be able to discover where she had come from, where she belonged. If they didn’t, then he supposed he’d have to contact the authorities here in Spain. It would probably be better that she went into a Spanish orphanage where at least she would be among children of her own nationality. Maybe, though, if they went back to Ballygurry and she did go to St Joseph’s she’d at least be with Padraig. She had a soft spot for that litt
le fellow all right.
He leaned over and kissed Dancey softly on the forehead and she smiled from the depths of her sleep.
Sister Perpetua turned off the lights downstairs, lit a candle and climbed the stairs wearily. She made her way quietly along the corridor where the postulants’ rooms were, paused outside the last door and listened.
From inside the room came the sound of excited whispering and stifled laughter. She put her ear closer to the door. She drew in her breath suddenly, felt the blood rush into her cheeks as she heard a snippet of the conversation. Then she rapped on the door and there was immediate silence within the room. Sister Perpetua shook her head and made her way slowly and thoughtfully to her own sparse room at the opposite end of the corridor.
During the night the storm had blown itself out. In the morning a watery sun rose above the steaming rooftops of Murteda and a fresh warm breeze blew along the cobbled streets of the town.
In the dining room Donahue looked at Nancy Carmichael across the table and couldn’t believe the transformation in the woman.
It was a miracle and she hadn’t even got to Santiago de Compostela yet! Her face had softened round the edges and a smile came quite naturally to her lips now, animating her whole expression and making her eyes crinkle up and sparkle. She’d done away with that bloody awful pink lipstick, too, and the orange face powder. Dear God, she had legs with knees attached.
He was dying to ask her about this fellow of hers but he supposed he ought to be tactful and wait for her to mention it first.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Donahue cleared his throat.
“I hear, you’ve found yourself a man, Nancy Carmichael.”
“Well, you don’t beat about the bush. I have indeed, Martin Donahue.”
“Will you be taking him back to Ballygurry? I’d love to see their faces back there if you did.”
“What do you mean ‘if’, Donahue?”
“You’re not serious about taking him back?”
“No, Donahue, I am not.”
Donahue heaved a sigh of relief. Things were going to be bad enough for her with all the spiteful stirring Miss Drew had been up to, never mind the scandal if she turned up with a foreigner on her arm.
Their conversation was interrupted then as the door opened and a bleary-eyed Padraig came into the room.
“Morning, Padraig. Did you sleep well?” Donahue asked.
“Yes, but I have a bit of a headache and Father Daley has just told me about poor old Sister Immaculata.”
“That was tragic news, Padraig. Look at it this way, though, the poor old girl won’t be suffering any more now,” Donahue said kindly.
“I suppose so, but she was so good to me and all the other kids. She didn’t have a bad bone in her body. St Joseph’s will be awful without her.”
He turned away from Donahue then to hide his welling tears and suddenly noticed Nancy.
“Nancy, I didn’t see you there,” Padraig cried.
Donahue stared incredulously as Padraig went straight across to Nancy Carmichael, put his arms round her neck and kissed her on the cheek.
Another bloody miracle! Back in Ballygurry Nancy and Padraig hadn’t been able to bear the sight of each other.
“What happened to Sister Immaculata, Padraig?”
“She killed herself, Nancy. Drowned herself in the Giant’s Cakehole.”
“Dear God!” uttered Nancy. “Are they sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“It couldn’t have been,” Padraig said. “She was always warning us to stay out of there when the tide was on the turn.”
“That’s tragic. Do you think she’d lost her mind?”
“I don’t know, Nancy, I mean she was always a bit different, a bit mad in a nice way, but I don’t think she was simple at all. She just didn’t want to be at St Joseph’s, but they wouldn’t let her out.”
“How do you mean, Padraig?”
“She wasn’t allowed out in the daytime and they used to lock her up at night in the attic.”
“Dear God, why?”
“So she wouldn’t be able to escape. If she escaped they wouldn’t get the money,” Padraig said..
Nancy and Donahue stared at Padraig in disbelief.
“What money, Padraig?” Nancy asked.
“Are you pulling our legs?” Donahue said.
“No, she told me once that when she died, St Joseph’s would get a lot of money from her family.”
“Well, God rest her poor soul,” said Nancy.
“Ah, God, she must have been put in the convent by her family, against her will. I’d heard they used to do that sometimes, and St Joseph’s would have got a pay-off when she passed away,” Donahue said, remembering the two old women from years back.
“Anyhow, how did you get here, Nancy?” Padraig asked, sniffing.
“Rosendo brought Brother Francisco and me down in the donkey cart. The two of them have gone back to Santa Eulalia but Rosendo is coming back here tomorrow.”
“Rosendo is her fancy man, Donahue,” Padraig said, brightening up.
“Don’t be so blunt, Padraig.”
“Pot calling the kettle black!” laughed Nancy.
Donahue whispered, “Look, here come the gruesome twosome,” as the two postulants came shuffling in from the kitchen bringing baskets of bread and jugs of coffee.
“They give me the willies, those two, peeking at you from under those wimples. Especially that younger one; I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her, snooping about the place!”
The door opened then and Solly and Father Daley came into the room.
“Where’s Dancey and Mr Leary?” Padraig asked.
“Dancey is still asleep and Michael is trying to telephone the Villa Castelo,” replied Solly.
“It’ll be the parting of the ways after breakfast,” Father Daley said as he sat down. “You lot off to Benita and us on our way to Santiago de Compostela.”
“When do you actually leave for home?” Solly enquired.
“We sail from Camiga in three days’ time.”
Padraig looked down into his lap and surreptitiously wiped a tear away.
Michael Leary came into the dining room looking down in the mouth.
“What’s up?” Donahue asked.
“Bad news, I’m afraid. I’ve just spoken to a chap on the telephone called Carlos Emanuel.”
“Who the hell is he?” Donahue interrupted.
“He’s a servant at the Villa Castelo. Anyhow, the news is that Isabella Martinez died two days ago.”
“Damn!” Solly ejaculated. “Is there no other member of the family there that we could speak to?”
“He passed me on to her sister, a woman called Augusta, a right frosty old bat. She said quite emphatically that she knew nothing of anyone called Dancey Amati and neither did she wish to.”
“Well, that’s us scuppered then,” Donahue said sadly.
“Father Daley, Isabella Martinez was the woman Brother Bernardo was talking about,” Padraig said.
“I don’t remember that, Padraig.”
“I do. He said that Santa Eulalia was owned by an old woman, and that was her name, Isabella Martinez.”
“Ah, you’re right, I fancy. That was who Brother Francisco was off visiting, giving her the last rites.”
“Where do we go from here then, Solly?” Leary asked.
“God only knows. Back to Ballygurry?”
Donahue slumped in his chair and sighed heavily.
“Bloody hell, I was just beginning to enjoy myself,” he muttered.
All conversation was halted then by an ear-piercing scream that came from the kitchen.
“I told you those two are never bloody right,” Donahue said. “Like a pair of frigging banshees about the place. Will we go and see what’s going on in there before they wake the bloody dead?”
Before anyone had time to move, the two postulants burst through the door followed by the most peculiar and ancient-looking man that any
of them had ever seen.
The bright-eyed little man made a low bow to the open-mouthed audience.
“I am Muli,” he said. “The Nubeiro.”
“Pleased to meet you. And I’m the Queen of bloody Sheba,” Donahue snorted.
Padraig, who had been watching the two hysterical nuns, turned round, saw Muli, jumped up and ran across and hugged him.
“Do you know this peculiar article, Padraig?” asked Donahue.
“Muli is the one who saved my life when Brother Anselm was after me!”
“He doesn’t look as if he could punch his way out of a paper bag. He’s all skin and bone.”
“I believe that I am in the midst of pilgrims?” Muli said, looking round with interest at the assembled group.
“Not exactly,” Leary replied.
“If not holy pilgrims then those who are seeking for the answers to something, am I right?”
There was a great deal of nodding and nudging while the postulants cowered together in a far corner of the room.
“I believe,” said Muli, “that you all hold a piece of a puzzle in your hands but without the help of each other you cannot solve the puzzle. Now, Padraig here, I know, has been trying to solve the puzzle of the lost Irish virgin.”
Donahue sniggered.
Leary kicked him under the table.
“Well, if you find her, Padraig, save her for me.”
“Ever since Mr Leary told me about the statue I’ve been searching all over the place for it, but I haven’t nearly solved the puzzle yet, Muli,” Padraig said with disappointment.
“But you have unearthed some clues, yes?”
“I suppose so.”
“Tell us what you do know, then.”
“Well, I wondered at first if the Blue Madonna down in the hamlet below Santa Eulalia was the lost statue. It was very old for a start, but when I checked it out it was made of stone and the lost statue was made of gold.”
“So it wasn’t the statue that you were looking for?”
“Nope. But I noticed one night when I scrubbed my nails that some of the blue paint I’d scraped off the statue was the same colour as the blue paint on the fresco in the Great Hall.”