The hidden message was that it was as bad as sacrilege, to start their day, or at least Hannah’s part of it without a cup of tea and a chat.
“We’ll have our tea then,” Maggie said, softening a bit. Her mood wasn’t Hannah’s fault, and she didn’t want to go offending her. Hannah had enough to put up with, the only hard-working member of her large family.
“Still and all, Maggie. Sure, they’re only men at the end of the day. Men don’t notice how highly polished a piece of furniture is.”
“The canon does,” Maggie hoped the parting shot wasn’t too disloyal as she left Hannah to the vegetables and went out into the hall. She put her hand on the outside of her apron, feeling the hard corners of the envelope through the thin material.
* * *
“Priests and nuns, I’ve no time for them.”
Father Tom smiled at the old woman sitting by the remains of a poor fire.
“What are you grinning at, boy? Aren’t you shocked?”
He stopped smiling though it was an effort.
“Of course, I’m shocked, Nora. Scandalised, in fact.”
She put a thin, veiny hand on his sleeve. A hand with ingrained grime.
“You’re different, though. A nice lad. They’ve not had a chance yet, to ruin you. Give them time, though. Then you’ll be as bad as the rest of them.”
If he didn’t know and like Nora, he’d be shocked. You never heard anyone in rural Ireland say a bad word about the church or the clergy. Even if they had any doubts or ill feelings about them, they would keep such thoughts strictly to themselves.
He looked at Nora’s lined hands, at the coal dust and garden soil that begrimed them. Those hands had done a lot of work, washing, cooking and rocking cradles. Not only that. She had worked the acre after the early death of her husband, probably from TB, though you could never directly refer to that, it was a forbidden subject. Her five children had all done well for themselves and the grandchildren even better. Maybe all that had given Nora a certain license to speak her mind, or maybe, living on her own for years now, and pleasing herself meant that she just didn’t care.
“You’ll have been out to see old Simon Crowe?”
He shuffled in the chair -time to tread carefully. The sanctity of the confessional. But, there was nothing to prevent him saying that he’d been to see the man. It would be common knowledge in Ballytierney. You could never stop people talking about the big things, the hatches, matches, and dispatches.
“I went to see him, yes, Nora.”
She shook her head.
“Old rogue,” That was a lot milder than Tom might have expected. Curious. But then, Nora had never followed the mainstream view in anything.
“What you see is what you get with Simon Crowe, young man,”
“Wicked, some might say. But, he never pretended to be the pillar of the community. Never took it on himself to judge how others should live their lives.”
She let a pause develop, and he felt the sweat on his top lip and just under his hairline.
She was referring to the priests; he was almost sure. Most likely the canon. He’d worried about keeping things from her. It seemed the boot was on the other foot.
* * *
“That won’t do at all, Miss Cahill. I specifically told you no pies and tarts. It isn’t winter. I told you a light sweet, didn’t I? A sherry trifle or a fruit jelly with cream. No hot desserts and no stodge.”
Smile and just say, yes, Canon. That was the only way. But she was only human. You put people down and showed them no respect, and it hurt.
“I’ll do a trifle, then, Canon.”
“Very well.” He bowed his head as though bestowing some sort of forgiveness.
Short cut trifle. Her movements were quick but clumsier than usual as she added the sherry, and plenty of it, to the pieces of Madeira cake.
“He’s in a mood,” said Hannah, from her position at the sink.”
“He is,” was all Maggie allowed herself to say. Her chest burned. She’d be spooning milk of magnesia into herself before the end of the day. It made it worse being criticised in front of Hannah. It shouldn’t, but it did.
If right was right, he shouldn’t speak to her like that at all and especially not in front of a woman from the town. Hannah wouldn’t be restricted like Maggie herself was. She might be cautious in what she said, but she could let it slip that the canon had been giving out to the housekeeper. Maggie’s face became hot at the thought. For two pins…but there was no point in thinking like that. She’d grown up in poverty. Not exactly hungry, but often on the brink of it. Worse of all she saw her mother bent from worry, always, always patching and eking more out of a scrag end of mutton. Slipping into the back of the hall when there was a jumble sale on with her old message bag in desperate search of a few shirts or pairs of trousers that would do for the boys for school.
No, she’d put up with the canon’s moods and not do anything hasty. She was fed and found, and her bit in the post office was her safety net against an uncertain future, though the Catholic Church wasn’t big on wages and there’d be no pension.
* * *
“You were a long time, Father Lally.”
Tom’s spirits dropped, as though it was a physical thing, there in the middle of his stomach. It was in the parochial house that did it. If he only didn’t have to come back here.
“I sat with old Simon Crowe for a while, Canon, and then his wife wanted me to stay for a cup of tea.”
“Was that all the tea you had?”
The words dragged out of the canon as if he could only just bring himself to utter them, and of course, it went without saying that he already knew the answer, just as he almost always did. He knew everything that happened within ten miles.
A tic started up on the corner of Tom’s eye. Again. He thought that had stopped bothering him.
“I called in to see Nora Hannigan.”
“And why would you want to do that, Father? She isn’t ill, is she?”
“No, Canon.” He kept quiet. Whatever he said now would put him in the wrong.
“And I doubt very much that you were praying with her. Doesn’t go in much for the church or prayer or anything you could expect from a normal good living woman, does Mrs. Hannigan.”
If only he had the guts to defend her and to stand up for himself. But, what chance did he have against a man, in every way superior, more holy and with decades on him? The only thing to do was to say nothing and put up with the stomach aches and the migraines and the tics, poor sleep, and the rest. It was a bad thing to even think, but the truth of it was that the cannon was a bully.
“You have three sick visits to make before the end of the day if I’m not mistaken, and then go and make yourself presentable for our guests tonight.”
He would have liked a sandwich and a half-a-hour to himself, but there was no chance of that now. There was something else he needed to do as well, or at least think about—he needed to think.
“Be careful who you spend your time with, young man. If you want to judge a person, take a look at his friends. That’s something my old parish priest used to say, and he was a wise man.”
Tom’s stomach lurched like it did when he went over that bump in the Pike road a bit too fast.
One of these days… As sure as God was in heaven, he’d turn and tell the canon what he thought, and hang the consequences. As a new curate, there was no doubt about it, he was the lowest form of life here in the parish house. It wasn’t so bad in the parish, and the nuns fussing and mothering was even heartwarming, sometimes. They made sure too that they only did it when out of earshot of the canon. It was unspoken but an absolute truth, that the canon didn’t like anything that took the attention away from himself.
* * *
Father Stephen was taking his time coming downstairs and that poor lad, Father Tom, was still out doing all the work. Ah well, at least he had the car. The canon had been shamed into it in the end by a few brave comments from some of
the parishioners, shocked to see the lad going round the parish on a sit-up-and-beg bike.
It was good to change her low-heeled court shoes for a pair of carpet slippers and to sit down for a cuppa and a quick look at the paper.
But, she just wasn’t able to take it in. Any of it. Helen Brosnan, her best friend, bar none, hadn’t meant a bit of harm when she’d put her hand on Maggie’s arm earlier today, and said,
“What is it, Maggie? What is it that’s troubling you? And don’t say that it’s nothing. I have eyes in my head, and something has changed, Maggie.”
The urge to open her mouth and let it all come out was so strong it actually hurt in her chest. Would she? You could trust Helen with your life. But, telling secrets always had consequences. It was a bit like, marry in haste, repent at leisure—and that was ironic. She could blurt things out now, and then wouldn’t be able to take the words back. Anyway, Helen had troubles of her own.
“Helen, take no notice of me.”
Helen tutted and shook her head.
“All right. It isn’t loyal of me and it goes against the grain, but the canon is getting more difficult, and I’m struggling not to lose my temper which would be absolutely dreadful.”
“Oh, Maggie.” Helen didn’t rush in to tell her to mind her p’s and q’s, or that the clergy had a difficult job which you could half-expect her to do.
“I don’t know whether it’s him or me, if I’m honest, Helen…probably a bit of both. I think he is getting more demanding and intolerant, and I think both of the other priests feel it too, particularly young Father Lally, young Tom.”
“Mmm lowest of the pecking order, I suppose?”
“Exactly. So, I’d say, being as objective and calm as I can that, yes, he’s getting more awkward with age, but…”
“He was never much different.”
“No, Helen. His reputation went before him, as they say. So, before he got here, after the death of the old canon, I’d heard he was a difficult man.”
Helen poured out from the pot of tea that had been brewing as they spoke. She passed a cup and saucer across her spotless table with its jug of dahlias placed on a lace mat at its centre.
“So, I can’t complain, or I shouldn’t complain. But, maybe I’m getting cranky too, Helen, in my old age. I’m most worried that I’ll say or do something I’ll regret.”
Helen raised her dark eyebrows and frowned. “That serious, Maggie?”
A wave of heat swept through Maggie’s whole body, and her skirt pinched at the waistband. What was she thinking? Talk about talking out of school. It was like she’d lost control of what she was saying. She needed to backpedal a bit.
“Take no notice of me, Helen. I’m having a bad day, that’s the top and bottom of it, and I’ve been speaking out of turn. You won’t say anything to anyone, will you?
“Maggie, how long have we known each other? I’d be insulted if I thought you meant it. Of course, I won’t say a word.”
I haven’t even told you the half of it. Maggie foraged in her mind for something to change the subject.
“I miss the old Maggie. You’re the one of us, you know. One of us old biddies who always looks on the bright side, sees the humour in most things. That’s what I miss…”
There was a sudden surge of tears behind Maggie’s throat and nose, a pressure; coming out of nowhere. Were her troubles really so obvious to everyone? It was true, what Helen had just said, Maggie usually prided herself in seeing the bright side. She’d get back to that – wouldn’t she? Somewhere, in the muddle of her thoughts, too, was a glimmer of relief. The thing was out in the open now–well the fact that she was troubled was out in the open, anyway and she’d have to face up to things. She just needed to get this big supper over and then it would be time to stop dithering and come to some decisions.
Chapter Three
“Are you nearly ready? We need to be going soon,”
Geraldine O’Sullivan didn’t answer her husband. It wasn’t an answer he was after anyway. It was just a nudge to get her out the door. To go somewhere else she had no interest in, with a husband she could barely tolerate.
The mirror she stared into was marked around the edges, part of a dressing table she’d brought with her when she’d married Frank O’Sullivan, and moved in here with him.
Her reflection in the mirror, her appearance, irritated her nearly as much as Frank’s voice. The perm was too tight, her hair that bit too short, despite telling that young girl at the hairdressers that she wanted a looser, more natural look.
There were lines around her mouth too, and from the books she’d taken to reading—though devouring would be a more accurate way to put it—the grooves would be called “lines of dissatisfaction.” That just about summed it up. This wasn’t what she wanted to be like. There were women in this town who envied her and probably disliked her in equal measure. They thought she had it made, here in her house in Basil Row, amid the accountant and the head teacher of the boys’ secondary school, and the local TD. She had her own car and a cheque book. Hannah Scrivens came in for a couple of hours a week to do the heavy housework. When the children had been young and at home, a girl had come in to help look after them. She was an ungrateful, spoilt woman, no doubt.
She puffed another bit of powder on her nose. “All right. I’m ready. Your tie isn’t right. Come here.”
He stood rigid as she straightened the knot and wrestled with the insane urge to tighten the knot more and more.
“Quite an honour and a privilege to be dining at the parochial house on a special night like this. An indication of where we stand in the town, Gerry.” Had he always been this pompous or had his pomposity expanded, like his middle?
Only once had she really stood up to him. It had been over something trivial enough -a dance at the rugby club that she just couldn’t face. Her youngest, Elizabeth, had only been a few months old, fractious, difficult then as she still could be. She was teething as well, making every night a struggle to get more than three or four hours’ sleep. Then Geraldine would have to get up in the morning and see to Frank’s breakfast and get the other three children up and off to school. Elizabeth had been a late baby, born just as Geraldine had been getting used to a small bit of life back for herself.
“So, when Frank got in that night, and she hadn’t made any moves to get ready, he’d turned on her. No shouting and swearing. He prided himself on being better than the scum of the earth, as he called them, who worked in common jobs and spent their wages in the pub. God only knew what a lot of his fancy customers would think if they heard the way Frank talked about people when he was here in his nice home in Basil Road.
“Frank, could we call it off or could you maybe even go on your own? I have a headache, it’s been on and off all day and, oh, lord Frank, I want nothing more than an early night. Kate said she’d help to put them to bed and…”
His face registered no expression, and his voice remained low and calm.
“Take an aspirin and put your lipstick and a decent frock on and be ready in fifteen minutes.”
That was the point she should have stood her ground. Many the time she’d thought that because the next small confrontation was a little bit nastier, and she a bit weaker and somehow smaller, until it had got to the point where she’d go out of her way never to provoke him at all, never to express an opinion, never contradict him. The price for her comfortable life.
The hatred built and built until it was an acid eating her from the inside out. But there was a well-known saying about the worm turning and maybe the time had come. Her children, apart from Elizabeth, were at boarding school and she had life left yet. It could be made a different life if she could just get back the courage that she’d allowed to erode away.
* * *
Maggie had never seen the canon in this mood before. They were all sitting around the dining table—the canon and his two junior priests; the bank manager, that O’Sullivan, who she could never warm to and his quiet wife and t
wo other long-standing friends of the canon and their wives; Donal Taffe, the head teacher of the technical school, and Buckley, the solicitor.
The powerhouse of Ballytierney, here under her own roof. They almost ran the town between them. Doctor Cash wasn’t here. Though they could all put it away, Cash was in a different league when it came to drink, and no doubt he couldn’t be trusted to behave himself or to keep his mouth shut either. That was a funny way to think. Why would they be frightened of having someone with them who’d be liable to spill the beans?
What secrets could they have? Respectable men all. Then, they probably viewed Maggie as respectable and look at what they’d see if they could look into her heart, or into the letter, now tucked into the lining of her old brown handbag, upstairs in her room.
Still, she’d give a lot to be a fly on the wall in that dining room. The talk had been that strained, polite meaningless chatter, while she’d been serving up the dinners. The weather and the local hurling team and the women talking about exam results and applications for teacher training college and UCC.
“There’s talk about Catholics being admitted to Trinity, I hear,” said Frances Buckley, a woman who was attractive in her own way despite buck teeth and one of those bony faces, fascinating to watch, all expressions and shadows.
“And why on earth would a good Catholic boy dream of going to a place like that, Frances?”
“I suppose so, Canon.”
Frances buckled down under the weight of the church. It was enough to make you seethe, sometimes. There were girls too, going to university these days. But the canon would never even think about anything like that. A woman’s place was in the home.
He looked at her now as she dawdled just a small bit with the vegetable dish, and you could see the temper and frustration rising in him.
She gave Father Tom the smallest hint of a smile, and left the dining room,
In the kitchen, she smoked a Gold Flake and drank a cup of tea. About a half-a-hour they’d be finished the main course, what with the chatter and the sipping of the wine -the best claret from the wine merchant in Cork.
The Body at Ballytierney Page 2