Irish Cream

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “Do you know who fired it?”

  “That is an offensive question, sir. If I knew, I would have reported it instantly. I would add that Lord and Lady Skeffington are very popular here. If any of my parishioners knew who did it, they would certainly have told me.”

  “Surely you know the members of the so-called Ribbonmen.”

  “I do not. You misunderstand the Ribbonmen if you think they are a formally organized group. They are more phantoms than anything else, a few leaders and a larger group of hangers-on who enjoy mysterious talk and vague threats. They are not very intelligent and they have only a few weapons such as old muskets and pikes and the odd unreliable revolver.”

  “You will tell me who the ringleaders are.”

  “I have not the slightest idea.”

  “Not even to protect your friend Lord Skeffington?”

  “I repeat that I do not know who they are.”

  I wondered whether if I did I would tell him. Probably not. I might tell Robbie and let him make the decision.

  The brigadier slapped his immense gauntlets together.

  “Very well. I wish you had seen fit to be more cooperative. I might mention that we have every intention of solving this dastardly crime.”

  “And I might say that I don’t believe you.”

  He flushed. How dare this wog medicine man insult an officer, indeed a general officer, in Her Majesty’s Army.

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean that I’m sure you know that Lord Skeffington was returning from the House of Lords?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where he had made a very strong statement?”

  “Yes … What does that have to do with it?”

  “You know what the speech was about?”

  “Something about home rule.”

  “A dual monarchy actually. Do you really think that Catholics in this part of Ireland would be offended by such a statement?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do, Brigadier Pryce-Smyth, with a double y. Those most likely to be offended are your Orangemen up in Belfast who have their own organizations like the Ribbonmen. When you begin to investigate the Orange Lodges, I’ll take the efforts of British military justice seriously.”

  He snarled and strode out of my parlor and the house.

  “Not a very nice man, Your Reverence. I did not like the way he looked at me. It was not respectful.”

  Women can tell when men are looking at them with desire. They like it or don’t like it, I suspect, depending on who the man is and what the desire implies. Does she notice my glances? What does she think of them?

  “Mrs. O’Flynn, you have encountered the kind of men who, when the British Empire finally collapses, will be responsible, the men who won the great victories at Yorktown, Balaklava, and Islandhlwana.”

  “Yes, Your Reverence.”

  A tolerant woman’s response to male bluster.

  Robbie Skeffington, obviously much better, was appropriately horrified by my report of the interview with someone whom I impishly referred to as his “superior officer.”

  “The man would not last five minutes in northwest India.” He laughed. “I will order him not to search the homes of the townland for rifles. He will not question anyone from Belfast. Dublin Castle does not like to offend them. They’re much more difficult than your people.”

  “Do you recall the names of the country folk who found you and called the doctor after they had brought you back here?”

  “Of course I do, Dickie, though I have denied it to Pryce-Smyth. He’d reward their good deed by punishing them. They could have left me there to bleed to death, which they might have if they thought it was the Ribbonmen. I’ll reward them appropriately when the lancers leave.”

  “The sooner we rid ourselves of that horrible man”—Mary Margaret Skeffington sighed—“the happier I will be.”

  I could only agree.

  I was challenged by troopers several times on my return ride. They saluted when they saw Lady Skeffington’s pass. I could do without the salutes and, nice boys that they were, I could do without them.

  THE REDCOATS ARE GONE AT LAST. Lord Skeffington is riding around again though still cautiously. He travels now with a couple of bodyguards, especially at night. I don’t think there’ll be another attempt, though I can’t say why.

  Why, I asked myself, did the same man who killed Tim Allen—and I rather thought it was—kill him with a single bullet, and then miss Lord Skeffington several times and then only wound him.

  The most obvious answer and probably an accurate one was that Tun had been silhouetted against the door of Marie’s cottage and the killer was only a few yards away in the darkness while His Lordship was riding rapidly at night.

  A more intricate answer—and hence the one that, as an Irishman, I favor—is that he deliberately missed Robbie with the first shots and accidentally hit him with the last.

  I assume I’ll no more know the answer to those questions than I will know the answer to the question of whether Mrs. O’Flynn is aware of the power of my desire for her. In heaven, if I make it there.

  20

  I AM losing my son and daughter. Mrs. O’Flynn informed me that they want to marry soon and leave for America.

  “She is not pregnant, Your Reverence. I think it will be good for them to go to America. They are both too intelligent and too ambitious to remain here as much as I will miss them.”

  I wanted to argue that they were too young, too innocent, too inexperienced to marry. We should try to persuade them to stay. I know that was the selfish man who hid always just below my priestly surface. It would also be an insult to Mrs. O’Flynn surging up from my own pathetic possessiveness.

  “If you have given the match your blessing, Mrs. O’Flynn, I can only agree … Do they have tickets?”

  “They have saved their money to buy a ticket in steerage.”

  I went over to my desk, removed a twenty-pound note, and put it on the table.

  “This is my wedding present for them. It is for a first-class stateroom. They should have the privacy that such a cabin provides. Mind you, it is to be used for nothing else.”

  “Thank you, Your Reverence. You’re very generous as always.”

  I wanted to weep. Soon I would lose her. The young people would be successful in the New World and they’d send her passage money. She would hesitate, but I would have to insist that she go. Away from this townland which was never her home, she would find a husband easily.

  THEY’RE GONE—happy, expectant, anxious. My heart is broken now, but one recovers. The wedding was an exciting event for the parish. Our handsome popular schoolmaster exchanging vows with the most beautiful young woman in the townland, indeed in the whole of County Donegal. There was a tinge of sadness, however. We did not have the “American Wake” that has been common for years when someone leaves for the United States. The mother of the bride strictly forbade it. Liam, whose respect for his mother-in-law is at least as great as her daughter’s, absolutely deferred to her in all things. He was, as is customary for grooms, far more nervous than she, both at the wedding and at the mild party afterwards, and as they boarded the buggy, which would take them to Sligo, and thence by train to Galway and Cork. Their ship would sail from Kinsale, where for so many before them the last glimpse of Ireland would be the diminishing church steeple.

  He knew the risks. He had been assured by his friend in New York of a place to live temporarily and a good job at a bank that needed a young man fluent in both Irish and English. But it might all collapse. They might find themselves penniless in a tenement with no hope. Yet there was no turning back.

  I preached on the bravery of marriage, the great risks every couple took, the love which would, with the grace of God, sustain them in danger and bind them together no matter what troubles they might undergo.

  I put my heart into it, a very heavy heart. Eileen glowed, Liam fretted. I realized how much she loo
ked like her mother and how beautiful Mary Catherine Reilly must have looked on her wedding day. We did not mention Seamus O’Flynn, her husband, a much older man who had died nonetheless too young. It was noteworthy that his family refused to attend the wedding. Seamus O’Flynn’s bride was not to be forgiven for being an outsider to the very end.

  However, the Skeffingtons did come to the wedding as was only proper since Liam was his schoolmaster.

  The bride’s mother wept, but no more than did the mother of any bride.

  The parish priest did not weep, though he ached to do so. He contented himself with thinking of all the things that might go wrong. Then we gathered at the little cottage behind the parish house to say good-bye.

  “We’ll see you both again,” Eileen promised with the serene optimism of the very young.

  “The new schoolmaster will be better than I was,” Liam promised me, with a touch of guilt in his voice.

  “If he’s half as good, he’ll still be better than we deserve.”

  Eileen hugged me and kissed my cheek. Liam shook my hand once more.

  A soft rain began as the buggy drove away.

  The parish house will be quiet for the next couple of weeks until we get the first message from New York.

  FINALLY, FOUR WEEKS after they sailed, Mrs. O’Flynn received a long letter from her daughter. It was a rough voyage. They were both seasick for much of the crossing, but recovered enough to enjoy the sights of the final days. They had little difficulty at Ellis Island. The first weeks they were overwhelmed with settling in their new apartment, tiny but very nice. Liam’s job was better than they had expected. He would make as much money in a week as he did all year in Donegal. She was learning to play the piano. She thought she might be pregnant.

  The first phase of their adventure was complete. And we would adjust to the infrequent letters written a couple of weeks before we received them.

  The terrible storms continue. We have been most fortunate in the new schoolmaster. He is older than Liam and not as popular but the students respect him.

  I resume my afternoon piano exercises. Astonishingly, some of the young people come to listen.

  A TELEGRAM FROM NEW YORK. They have their first child, Mary Catherine. Mother and child fine.

  A LETTER FROM EILEEN. They have a home of their own, a brownstone on Eighth Avenue near the park. Lovely. The bank is very pleased with Liam. They keep promoting him. Mary Catherine, called Cathy, is smiling all the time. They have a piano and a woman comes once a week to teach her.

  Their own piano? Isn’t that too much, too soon? Have they succumbed to American materialism? Little Cathy’s grandmother also seems uneasy.

  I am worried about Liam’s rapid progress. Could it be some kind of confidence game?

  Other young Irishmen, less intelligent and charming than my former schoolmaster., have done equally well.

  Yet I worry. I will ask Lord Skeffington to look into the bank. I should have checked with him before.

  BOB SKEFFINGTON ASSURES ME that his banker in Dublin tells him that the bank is first-rate. I tell Mrs. O’Flynn and she says that it is nice to know that. She is very lonely.

  The Land League campaign is gaining momentum. Michael Davitt was in our neighborhood the other day. A powerful speaker. Lord Skeffington was on the platform with him, much to Davitt’s surprise.

  Boysie Lufton stopped by to see. He’s on one of his mysterious peregrinations through Ireland.

  “So he went to America with his bride,” Boysie said as he reclined at my fireplace with a jar of poteen. “He said they’d never do it. He reckoned as the school grew bigger they both would teach there.”

  “He was offered a very good position in a bank and is doing well.”

  “Old Liam would do well anywhere.” He yawned. “He shouldn’t have left. Still. Stay with the troops sort of thing. The mother-in-law still sees to you, I notice.”

  “Until they earn enough for her passage.”

  “Everyone says it’s a shame to waste such a striking woman on a priest. I disagree. Priests are entitled to the best. Priests and lords. Brave deserve the fair, sort of thing … Your man left suddenly?”

  “Not really. They decided to marry rather suddenly and that was the whole story.”

  He promised he’d visit the next time he came through.

  A LETTER TO ME from Eileen.

  They have bought a first-class ticket for her mother to join them in the States. In their new house they have room for a little apartment for her. She’ll love the two children. Please beg her to come.

  Mrs. O’Flynn comes to me with her letter and the ticket.

  “I shouldn’t go,” she begins.

  “Woman,” I say, my heart pounding, “you should.”

  “I can’t leave Donegal.”

  “You must.”

  “What will happen to this house?”

  Nice touch. What is a figure of speech which equates a person with where he lives? A metonym!

  “Someone else will keep it neat, though not as neat as you have. Someone else will cook the food, though it won’t be as tasty as yours. Someone else will open the door, but without the grace and charm with which you do that task.”

  She flees the room in tears.

  But she’ll go.

  AFTER SEVERAL DAYS OF TEARS, she agrees that she must visit her grandchildren. If she’s not happy, she will return to Donegal. In the meantime she will find a new housekeeper for me. I agree, dishonestly, that, yes, she can always return.

  SHE’S GONE. I escorted her by buggy and train to Cobh and boarded the ship, a new and elegant steamer, with her luggage. In her stateroom (I had added to her ticket) I gave her an envelope.

  “Now listen to me, woman. There’s money in here. I’ve been setting it aside through the years for your pension, so it’s rightfully yours. I’m sure you’ll be very happy with Eileen and Liam and the children. However, this is for you if something goes wrong. It will give you independence.”

  She shied away like it was a bomb.

  “Woman, you will! Don’t argue with me!”

  I slipped it into her blouse.

  “Thank you, Your Reverence.” She bowed her head. “You’re too kind altogether.”

  “Not kind enough perhaps.”

  The whistle blew, warning me that I should leave the ship.

  “There’s one more thing, Mary Catherine. You’re a charming and beautiful woman. Men your age in New York will find you extremely attractive. You should not refuse to respond to that emotion, so long as you have encountered a fine Irish gentleman. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father,” she said simply. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Do you think Sean Toole is a fine Irish gentleman?”

  “After she polished the edges off,” she said with a smile.

  “You remember how he looks at her?”

  “Yes.”

  “How would you describe it?”

  “Half desire, half respect, half affection.”

  “When you find a man who looks at you that way, he might be the one.”

  “So long as,” she said, blushing deeply, “he’s a good Irish Catholic.”

  “Of course.”

  Another warning whistle.

  I take her hand in mine and hold it tightly.

  “Go with God, Mary Catherine.”

  “Thank you, Father. You’ve been very good to me.”

  A simple gesture. Simple words. A whole lifetime of emotion. Perhaps I should have kissed her, but I think not. That might have spoiled it.

  She will always be the woman of my life.

  We wave to each other as the ship slips away from the wharf and rises on the tide. Ironically, her last sight of Ireland will be the fading steeple of the Cathedral of St. Colm.

  I AM NUMB, drained, empty of faith, of feeling, of hope. I will recover. Someday.

  I am playing the piano again. Almost magically the kids reappear as if they were waiting for me.

>   The new woman is excellent. Not as good as Mary Catherine was, nor as beautiful, but still excellent.

  I HAD SUPPER TONIGHT with the Skeffingtons. They were eager for the latest information about “the family in New York.”

  “Mrs. O’Flynn doesn’t write. Eileen tells me that her mum is well and happy. She says she never realized how beautiful her mother was. Eileen is also making great progress at the piano. She asserts that soon she will be better than I am.”

  “Do you miss them, Dick?” Mary Margaret asks.

  “Of course,” I say easily. “Life, however, goes on. It’s the way of it.”

  I’m not sure that I deceived them. Perhaps I did.

  ANOTHER LETTER FROM EILEEN.

  “The most astonishing thing, Father Dick, has happened. Mom is in love. And the man, who has proposed marriage to her, loves her too. He is tall and good-looking, a rich doctor who lost his wife two years ago, perhaps a year or two older than Mom. When they look at each other there are stars in his eyes. She says to tell you that he’s a fine Irish gentleman, which he certainly is. There have been suitors calling on her almost since she came to New York. No wonder. She is so beautiful. I guess I never noticed. My good husband says that every man in the townland noticed. I’m so happy for both of them.”

  I send a short note to Mary Catherine congratulating her on her engagement to the fine Irish gentleman whose name her daughter forgot to mention. She responds promptly with a short note thanking me for my blessing and telling me that her husband’s name is Michael James Murphy and he’s from Galway.

  Married so soon? Well, why not? Why wait?

  It’s what I’ve wanted for her. So why am I sad?

  She is too fine a woman to be wasted on a priest.

  I AM TO LEAVE THIS PARISH and Donegal. The stiff and formal Latin letter from the Cardinal makes it clear that I have no choice. I do, however. I can simply refuse. In a struggle of wills between the two of us I think I can win. He’s old and infirm now. And perhaps a little dotty, which would explain the letter.