Avoiding their eyes he looked along the polished floor to where the two men stood in the centre of a group. He could see Donnelly’s fine calf shoe-leather, more like dancing pumps; Cassidy’s black brogues splayed out for rough work. Jig to their tune? Not me! Between them now they’ll have that heckler, whoever he was, tagged, earmarked and filed for reference in Castle and Palace.
Billy Winters said ‘No thank you’ to a waiter proffering a tray of wine and sherry. He asked for whiskey; got it. As he began to drink and look about, he could see that the Chamber comprised two groups, one Protestant and landowning with satellite business, middle-class and professional; the other monied, and Catholic: cattle-shippers, publicans, builders, road-contractors and returnee ‘millionaires’ from Britain and America. Donnelly’s team. He’d be touching them now or later at a meal in the parish house to keep the spires of his new Cathedral in Monaghan soaring upward, triumphant. Pathetic pride. A long way he’s come from his home place, a hovel in Urbleshanny, a long way from Glencolumbkille, a long way from Christ.
Between the two groups moved free-rangers of both denominations and both genders, Garrison officers, members of ladies’ guilds, town and county councillors. Where would Beth be now, had she come? With Donnelly? With me? With persons I don’t know? Do I know her? Ward does now . . . Did she? With him! A Fenian mongrel . . . Did she? Oh God!
Someone caught his elbow gently. He turned. Gary Pringle agitated by Percy French’s sudden departure. He placed his mouth close to Billy’s ear:
‘You know Percy’s gone?’
‘Yes,’ Billy said, ‘I knew that.’
‘Should I ask for silence, tell them or . . .’
‘No one seems unhappy,’ Billy said, ‘I’d tell them he’s dodged off.’
Pringle thought about this and said:
‘Yes . . . Yes . . . I believe you’re right . . . Yes, I’ll do that.’
Billy watched as Pringle went from group to person to couple, shaping the words, ‘Bird’s flown’ . . . ‘Yes, unfortunate . . . our guest of honour . . . did a pimpernel on us, straight out the front door and away in his gig . . . unpredictable,’ and the reactions, ‘Ah! what a shame’ . . . ‘what a pity,’ . . . until someone said, ‘Oh! a cute Roscommon hoor, take the money and run.’
During laughter which followed this, he saw Jimmy Donnelly extricate himself from the Catholic circle nodding here and there as he moved towards the refreshment table, a small man with sensuous lips and slow all-seeing eyes. He was wearing a trim charcoal suit cut in London or Paris, a hint of purple at the clerical collar.
‘James of Clogher,’ Billy said holding out his hand.
‘When I was a Curate here you called me Jimmy . . . I’d still prefer that.’
The voice had acquired a kind of levitical bleat.
‘I got your note,’ Billy said. ‘It was a help: I’m indebted,’
Donnelly gave a small shrug, waiting to hear about Fairbrother.
Instead Billy said:
‘You’re singing’s worse than mine. I thought you people were forbidden to attend public performance?’
‘Percy French is “a phenomenon” . . . I gave myself a dispensation.’
‘Who was that heckler fella?’
‘Parnell’s man in Cavan . . . a chap called Thomas Leddy.’
‘Which tribe?’
‘Ours; non-practising. Can you tell me about Mister Fairbrother?’
For ten seconds Billy looked at the floor and then said quietly:
‘It was blackmail of a sort.’
The slow eyes quickened and rolled away as the pursed lips said:
‘I suppose I can’t ask?’
‘No,’ Billy said, ‘you can’t.’
Donnelly’s face did not respond. The colour of his voice became a degree colder as he said:
‘I inquired because possibly I can help.’
Who, Billy thought, does he think he is that he can help me. He looked away until the silence obliged Donnelly to say:
‘I hope you didn’t concede?’
‘I gave him my boot,’ Billy said, ‘almost.’
‘Good for you.’
Billy Winters then inclined his head towards Jimmy Donnelly’s teacup.
‘What’s that brown stuff?’
Donnelly made a chalice offering of his teacup and said:
‘Tea; Bewley’s most likely, and very good.’
‘How in hell do you people keep on the straight and narrow?’ Billy asked. ‘Or do you?’
Turning crude now . . . must be drunker than he looks. Two hundred years of church-building to catch up on, meantime their wretched hymns and barren services in our stolen sanctuaries, hunted from rock to rock, castration once proposed for all Irish priests in their mother of parliaments; use us, despise us, fear and hate us still. Donnelly cleared his throat:
‘I’ve a Cathedral to finish: that’s putting money in your purse, Billy, and there’s pastoral work, when I’m not begging funds, and I read and travel a lot and I sing betimes, poorly as you remarked . . . all that keeps me half-decent for whatever judgement’s pending.’
Billy Winters again signalled to a passing boy waiter, quaffed the remainder of his glass; took another whiskey from the proffered tray. The boy added water, smiling respectfully towards the Bishop of Clogher who returned the smile. Young Coogan . . . is it? . . . very like, or kin, I’d swear. ‘Cultra’, that white Negro look, wide nose and full mouth, a bit tinkerish, attractive though. Billy’s hand on his arm saying something, must know him, knows everyone. What’s on Fairbrother’s file? Some indiscretion? Farm boys? Caesar’s complaint? Hardly. Too much of a ladies’ man. Lad’s embarrassed now, I’m staring too hard . . . look away.
Jimmy Donnelly looked up at the ceiling and drank a mouthful of tea.
Dull, bare, municipal ceiling, a far cry from Easter in the Sistine: Pope’s Mass, choir singing Allegri’s ‘Miserere’, that boy tenor. Dear God, the overwhelming beauty. Can such wonders be and no God? how grand heaven, after all, meeting dear Mama again. And poor poor Father boxed a month today, dead and buried in Urbleshanny. Wept both sides at the end, so sorrowful even now to remember. Dear God, have pity on John Joseph Donnelly: forgive him his sins, Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on his soul; have mercy on us all.
For an instant Jimmy Donnelly could feel his eyes swimming. He blinked vigorously to disperse the tears. The boy waiter had moved on and Billy Winters turned as an Anglo-Irish voice obtruded confidently:
‘He was one of Parnell’s cronies.’ The voice dropped to a loud conspiratorial whisper intended for overhearing:
‘And if what’s circulating is even half-true, he’ll drown in the same bog as he drowned Boycott and God knows how many others.’
Then a woman’s voice; American:
‘Our press over there described Mister Parnell as “a sleek Irish dude”.’
Again the Anglo voice asking:
‘How should we spell that, dear – with or without an “e”?’
Restrained laughter.
The Bishop of Clogher glanced towards the voices. Anglo rule-of-thumb. If it’s Ireland or Irish, mock it instantly. Guilt. Nothing to envy in that pagan island but Shakespeare, and Parnell no dud for their mockery . . . on everyone’s lips. That proud eagle face . . . contemptuous of their commons and common morality. Shameful duplicity with O’Shea’s wife . . . his ruination if true . . . and ours. Tim Healy swears he’s an Atheist . . . Our first President? Atheist? Unthinkable.
Billy Winters was at his side again, a full glass of whiskey in his hand. This time James of Clogher inclined his head towards Billy’s glass:
‘That’s beginning to show.’
‘Drunk my Lord, and for good cause.’
‘Can I share it?’
‘You just did . . . Percy the peacemaker. That was the best evening ever in this town.’
‘Yes, of course . . . The man has something genial and extraordinary . . . and he’s a great deal shrewder than the stuff he
writes.’
‘Stuff?’
‘The, eh, it’s doggerel Billy . . . Albeit charming, but doggerel nonetheless.’
‘You’re as grand as Beth Winters. I thought he was wonderful.’
‘Where’s your gig stabled?’
‘At the Royal.’
‘I’m going that way now. There’s an item or two I want to talk about if you’d like to walk with me.’
‘Why not.’
‘I’ll have to make my excuses; back presently.’
The Bishop of Clogher squeezed his elbow amicably and began padding about the room pausing briefly. Billy could see him saying: ‘Yes of course’, ‘Yes, I’ll do that’, ‘I’d love to’; a quick word here, a smile there, the left hand promptly extended for kissing, the right hand touching a face or chignon, a purblind nod towards the Protestant circle where some watched, half-curious, others with simulated blindness.
Billy Winters watched them watching the Bishop of Clogher. Cheeky, smooth little bugger ticking me off like that. Doesn’t need whiskey; intoxicated with himself. This room packed with Tammany Taigs, vindictive unforgiving pack, outbreed us yet, that’s what they’re up to, get the land back, get us off it or bury us in it, convert us or kill us, burning zeal . . . Still got half a notion he’ll make a convert of me . . . no bloody fear, Sir, not my soul . . . not my land, not my gold, defend it to the death. Items! . . . what items? . . . what’s he after? . . . Parnell’s fornications? Fairbrother’s quest? Beth? He knows it all, oldest secret service in the world, teach intrigue to intriguers, unholy office, bad lot at the back of it. Cathy always running to confession, forever quoting him, her Curate then; Father Jimmy this, Father Jimmy that, Father Jimmy the other, sickening dose, tattle tattle tattle, in a box, all breathless, telling tales out of bed, tail-end stuff mostly they hear, in half-dark whispered, pushing for low details:
‘Down there, child?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Down there, child?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And will you promise me?’
‘Father, yes, Father, Father.’
‘Go in peace, my child.’ Childless all of them. Or was she making it all up to tease me . . . mocking Donnelly . . . mocking me . . . Sly shepherds they are . . . scare the flock to keep their grip . . . Rome’s crooked crozier.
But soft you . . . Here he comes! Wee Jimmy; Rome’s Lord of Clogher, not mine.
His farewells complete, the Bishop of Clogher saw, from the centre of the Council Chamber, the glazed stare of drunkness staring back. Oh dear. Oh dear me! Foolish unstable man. Make some excuse, get off without him. Hate drunken gibberish. Can I give him the slip? Dear God, he’s following me. Over his shoulder the Bishop said, ‘Maybe you’d care to stay on, Billy?’
‘No, my time is up,’ Billy said.
Donnelly was tempted to an obvious response. He waited for the comparative anonymity of the Diamond where he stood in the centre of the street looking down into the crown of his topper which he held with both hands, aware of candle-lit windows, of people watching from doorways, of a high, clear moon glinting on rooflights:
‘You mentioned items,’ Billy said.
‘Keep your voice down. Yes . . . The Parnell affair is on all our minds, very much . . . he stayed with you, Billy; quite an honour. How did you find him?’
‘Very strange,’ Billy said. ‘Small wonder he went bankrupt. All mad as hatters, the Parnells; well-suited to running this mad bloody country.’
The Bishop smiled curiously and said, ‘Nothing political?’
‘One word. I asked him about the “invincibles”, the hangings, the crowds kneeling night and day outside Kilmainham saying rosaries for young Brady . . . He muttered one word I couldn’t catch . . . Beth heard it . . . “Scum”.’
It was almost as if Donnelly hadn’t heard, as he said:
‘I haven’t seen Elizabeth for a year. I wanted to ask closely about her and of course about your good self.’
My bad self and goody Beth his ward. Sees himself, Billy thought, as her guardian. Poor child, a lost soul in a blighted house. Does he know about the other Ward, my tenant, the Fenian knife-smuggler, her invincible lover?
‘You don’t want to talk with me,’ Billy said, ‘you want information from me.’
Donnelly’s smile became forced. He turned, began to walk away. Ridiculous man: blunt, coarse, Ulster and proud of it. Crossing the Diamond, two soldiers with Cockney voices saluted the cloaked clergymen holding a topper. Donnelly returned their salute with a nod, and muttered:
‘Gentlemen.’
Billy Winters responded with an expansive salute:
‘Legionnaires from Putney, I’d say.’
Both watched as the soldiers went into a public house.
‘Mr Parnell is right about them: there can be no peace here till they’re gone.’
‘Them,’ Billy said.
He repeated the word loudly, ‘Them . . . That’s me, Sir, my people. “Them” is me, Billy Winters, and if they go, what happens? I want no truck with your Infallible Man in Rome . . . none.’
Donnelly glanced away for a moment. Far too drunk now to bother with. Move away after this; sanctuary: the parish house. He heard himself say:
‘It’s almost three hundred years now, Billy; six generations, that’s how long you’ve been with us, how long more before you become part of us . . . three hundred more?’
‘Never,’ Billy said.
‘A pity . . . a great pity you feel that way.’
This time the Bishop walked away without looking back. He kept walking into the dark, as the drunken voice called after him:
‘Being born in a stable doesn’t make you a horse, that’s what the Duke of Wellington said about being born here.’
From the half-light of the hollow Donnelly’s voice came back:
‘It could also make you a God. He rules the universe!’
‘A bloody bad job he made of this wee corner,’ Billy muttered, as he flung a dismissive arm towards the hollow and the neat footsteps tapping away into silence. Blind to watchers in doorways, to the high clear moon and stars, Billy Winters felt suddenly alien, angry and alone as he headed down Town Hall Street towards the yard and stables of the Imperial Hotel.
12
Mercy had packed her own and Gerry’s few belongings into two hessian bags. McCafferty’s pony and trap had called to collect. When Beth had asked why Gerry had to go, Mercy seemed evasive, almost angry:
‘He can’t manage on his own.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s no wit: you won’t be here; I won’t be here; he can’t mind himself.’
Her mood had stayed the same until they were parting at the back door where they embraced. Both wept. The suddenness and strangeness of this departure left Beth feeling deeply unhappy. She went up to the fountain hill and sat in the fort looking down at the Lower Lough and out to Corvey Island, watching the slow twilight merge into dusk. For the last time?
In the half-light of that first dawn with Ward when she had said: ‘You were never out of my head from that time we met in the yard,’ he hadn’t replied. She had asked: ‘Was it like that with you?’ The silence went on so long she got up on her elbow. Ward was deep asleep. The effect of that half minute’s silence was so unnerving that she was careful thereafter to ask questions and say things with more circumspection:
‘I love you more than life, but then I’m not sure what I think about life.’
His response to that had been:
‘It’s a gamble.’
‘And does the stealing not worry you?’ He seemed not to have heard.
‘Surely it must?’
‘It’s not stealing,’ he had said, ‘it’s taking back what was stole from us long ago.’
Before she could comment on this, he had asked:
‘How often does he go to that safe?’
‘Not often.’
&nbs
p; ‘How often is that?’
‘I don’t know, hardly ever maybe.’
‘All we need is two days and we’re away with it.’
It was dark in the house when she got back. She went to the hanging cupboard in the scullery, and took out a black lacquered box the size of a shoebox. It contained bandages, scissors, glass jars, gentian violet, iodine, and a small envelope Ward had given her containing four bromide tablets. On the outside it said FOR ANIMAL USE ONLY. She put the four tablets in a mortar bowl, ground them down with a pestle, scooped half the powder into a small glazed jug, poured in water and watched the powder dissolve. She put in her forefinger and tasted it. It had a faintly sour flavour. She then made cold bacon sandwiches, mixed the rest of the powder with mustard and spread it on the buttered bread. She carried the sandwiches on a plate to the dining-room table, aware all the time of her beating heart and a slight shake in her hand.
A fire in the bedroom grate had burned low as she sat watching the window, waiting, half-listening, re-reading Nicholas Nickleby, trying to make sense of words on the page. ‘They walked upon the rim of the devil’s punch-bowl; and Smike listened with greedy interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon the stone, reared upon that wild spot.’ Old Nick, young Nick, that convent by a lake long ago in Monaghan Town talking about banshees, ghosts and devils with Connie Ryan next to her in the dormitory. Connie lived on a farm opposite the Devil’s Bite in Tipperary, a great gap in the mountains. At the start of every term she was so homesick she cried herself to sleep pining for her own fields. She, Beth, would be leaving forever the miraculous skies of Fermanagh and, Oh God, she thought . . . this place, these fields: in May? The standing stone, the five limes, the fountain hill, the long field, the fort field, the bog field, the lake field and the lough itself and Corvey Island and the myriad memories of growing up here . . . the only world she understood or cared about . . . Leaving? . . . never to return? . . . never? . . . and this morning she had stumbled out in half-light to save a bloated cow! . . . What matter one cow in God’s ledger or the devil’s? . . . What matter if the whole herd had perished . . . God, she thought yet again, would not smile gently on what was planned for tonight.
Death and Nightingales Page 13