by A. J. Cronin
‘Quiet, you Scottish oaf.’ Father Superior’s evident annoyance with Plum slightly cheered me. But he went on: ‘Do you deny that you have ever visited her at this address?’
‘If I had visited her, why should she give me her address? I would certainly have known it.’
Father Superior looked inquiringly at Duff, who blurted out:
‘She must of telt him to remind him in case he had forgot it.’
A chilly silence followed this assumption, then Father Superior made a gesture towards the door.
‘You may depart, Duff.’
‘I’m sure your Reverence kens I only brought this to your notice from the highest possible personal motives of virtue and the good name o’ the college and forbye because there’s nae doubt in my mind but what Fitzgerald…’
‘Depart, Duff, instantly, or I shall be compelled to punish you with marked severity.’
When Duff had departed, shaking his head, the Rector was silent, studying me reflectively. Finally he spoke.
‘I don’t believe for a moment, Fitzgerald, that you visited that house, or that you had carnal knowledge of that girl. If I did, you would leave the college this very afternoon. But you behaved in a manner that laid you open to a suspicion of grave misconduct, and one which disgraced and dishonoured the college. I shall have to consult with my colleagues as to what your sentence must be. Meanwhile, whether you must go, or whether you stay, I give you this advice.
‘You are obviously inordinately attractive to the other sex. Be on your guard, therefore, against advances that may be made to you. Remain always in control of yourself and your emotions. Be discreet, calm, ready to withdraw at the slightest sign of danger. Do this, and you will spare yourself much pain, grief, and subsequent disaster. Now you may leave me. You will know your fate by tomorrow afternoon. Go to the church and pray that I may not be compelled to send you away.’
I bowed and went out, straight to the church, where, I assure you, I made my entreaties with fervour. I knew how severe Hackett could be – only a few months before he had dismissed one of the younger novices for smoking a little end of cigar. Warned once before, this fellow had disobeyed the order. It was enough.
On the following day I continued to suffer until five o’clock, when our good choir master Fr Petitt came towards me, and put his arm on my shoulders.
‘I am deputed to tell you, Desmonde, that you are to remain. You are gated until the end of the term but, thank God, you are saved, not only for your vocation but,’ he smiled, ‘ for our foray in Rome next month.’
I had begun to thank him when he added: ‘ Yes, you may be grateful to me. I think I swung the decision in your favour. I don’t have a voice like yours, not once in a hundred years.’
So there, dear Alec, is a verbatim report on the latest and most serious trial and tribulation of your most affectionate friend. I long for news of you. Do write to me immediately you have the results of your final examinations. You don’t know how often I picture you, studying hard, in your bare little room. In return I will brief you on the proposed visit to Rome, with all the details, everything I have hitherto withheld.
Ever yours most devotedly, Desmonde.
Chapter Four
I had now passed my final examinations for the M.B.Ch.B. and (while his partner was away) had taken a four weeks’ locum tenens with Dr Kinloch, an old and widely respected general practitioner in Winton. This was not my ultimate objective, nor the simple M. B.Ch. B. the last degree I meant to achieve, but it would keep me near my mother for at least a month, and with an honorarium of £40 would enable me, at last, to remove her from her work in the slums and to relieve the hardships she had bravely borne for so many years.
When I called to see Mrs Fitzgerald it was now in a professional capacity. I was seriously worried by her deteriorating condition and, when she permitted me to examine her, the diagnosis was never in doubt. Acute mitral stenosis with partial occlusion of the coronary artery. I persuaded her to allow me to bring Dr Kinloch in consultation. He confirmed the diagnosis and, while cheering the patient and prescribing for her, gave an even more grave prognonsis: she must rest in bed pending an improvement in her general oedema. Indeed, as we drove back in his little cabriolet, he said:
‘With that heart she might go at any minute.’
The dream of her life had been to see her beloved son ordained a priest of God. Now it was necessary to tell her that, in her present condition, she would never reach Rome. I could not bring myself to deliver this crushing blow, and my mother, now free to visit her friend every other day, and wiser than I, begged me to refrain for at least one more month.
So it befell that Desmonde’s mother, falling asleep one night in a bright vision of her son’s future, did not awaken to reality, disappointment and despair. She had died peacefully and without pain.
Desmonde, summoned immediately by telegram, arrived the day before the funeral, his manner sad yet restrained, without the abject manifestations of grief that might have been expected of him. I saw at once that he had changed, that his five years in the seminary had left their mark upon him, leaving him more restrained, rather more in control of himself. My mother epitomised it: ‘Desmonde has grown up.’
Even at the graveside he bore up well, although tears, and bitter ones, were shed. Immediately after the funeral, since he had been granted only three days’ leave, he talked with the lawyer. His mother’s annuity died with her, but she had saved for him an amount exceeding three thousand pounds. He would also receive monies accrued from the sale of the lease of the house. Many of her nice clothes, including her fur coat and a brand new costume, no doubt intended for the ordination, she left to my mother, together with some of her best furniture, eminently acceptable gifts that moved the recipient to tears. For myself, who expected nothing, there was a gift outright of one hundred pounds.
Desmonde’s train did not leave till midnight and that night, after my evening’s surgery, I sat late with him in the silent house and drew close to him again, as If we had never been apart.
Inevitably he spoke of his mother, concluding with a truism:
‘Isn’t it amazing, the good a woman can do to a man?’
‘And the bad, a bad one can do. There’s plenty of them around.’
‘Always the realist. Alec.’ He smiled. ‘What are your plans now you have your degree?’
I told him this was merely the first step, that I meant to write a thesis for my MD., and then to try for the M.R.C.P., adding:
‘That’s a hard nut to crack. Terribly difficult.’
‘You’ll do it, Alec.’
‘How do you see your future?’
‘Less clearly than yours. I shall be ordained in a matter of weeks, and as I haven’t always pleased the powers that be, I’ve a sad foreboding that I shall be sent to do penance in some rough parish, probably Irish, since I am an Irish citizen.’
‘You won’t like that.’
‘No, Alec, but it may be good for me. My views have changed rather, under the tender solicitude of the good Father Hackett.’
I looked at him inquiringly as he went on:
‘This Hackett is a strange fellow, Alec. I began by hating his guts. And he gave every manifestation of loathing me. I thought him a bully and a sadist. He’s not really, simply a zealot. He’s imbued, saturated with missionary zeal. He would like all his students to go forth into the wilderness to preach the word of God. I thought him a maniac. I don’t now. He’s a throwback to one of the Apostles, probably Paul. I have come to like and respect him, in fact he has rather got me.’
‘Do you see yourself as a second St Patrick?’
He flushed. ‘Don’t laugh, Alec. How do we know what’s ahead of us? You might suddenly chuck medicine and become an author. I might one day lay my bones in some tropical jungle.’
Impossible not to laugh, loud and long. And in a moment he joined me.
‘Anyway, I understand and respect Hackett now, and I’d like to repay him. There�
��s a competition in Rome. Promoted by the Società Musicale di Roma with lots of backing from the Vatican, open to young priests newly ordained or to novices on the eve of ordination. The basic idea is to encourage the use of the voice, in the sung Mass, the litanies, and so forth. Quite a noble idea, and nobly named the Golden Chalice. Father Hackett would like me to try for it.’ He paused. ‘We’re a small college at Torrijos, with an inferiority complex, far less well-known than our counterpart at Valladolid, What a lift it would give us, and what publicity, if we could put the trophy – it’s a golden chalice – in our front window.’
‘When is the happy event?’
‘Next June. So you can picture me following scores of others – Italy is bristling with young tenors – on to a platform decorated with a blasted panel of experts, lay and clerical, and singing my heart out before an audience, normally in the hundreds.’
‘You’ll win, hands down, Desmonde. Want to bet?’
He smiled. ‘With my ordination so near, Alec, I am barred from donating coins of the realm to a very dear, canny Scot.’ He looked at his watch. ‘ I’m afraid we’ll have to go now. Let’s walk down to the Central.’
When he had taken a last look round the house he took his bag and, pausing sadly on the threshold, shut and locked the front door. ‘It’s a Chubb lock. The agent has the key.’
As we set out for the station, he took my arm with his free hand.
‘Too bad keeping you up so late, Alec.’
‘I’m often up late, or in the middle of the night. Let me take your bag.’
He shook his head. ‘I carry my own these days. Listen, Alec. May I ask you a medical question?’
‘Of course.’ I wondered what was coming, but never expected what followed.
‘It’s rather an odd question, but do answer me seriously. If a human hand was severed at the wrist, would it eventually decay?’
‘Absolutely! After a week it would stink to high heaven, putrefy, then liquify and finally rot, leaving only the bones which would in time separate into the carpals and metacarpals – little knobs of disintegrating calcium.’
‘Thank you, Alec. Thank you very much.’
No more was said, and soon we were in the Central Station. I saw him to his third class compartment.
‘Don’t wait, dear Alec. These prolonged farewells are hell. Besides, I know, absolutely know, that one day our lives will be together again.’
We shook hands, then I turned away and walked quickly from the station. I hoped he was right, that we should one day meet again. I also hoped the last tram for Western Road had not gone.
Six weeks later Desmonde was ordained and, fulfilling his forebodings, officially notified to proceed to the Church of St Teresa in the country parish of Kilbarrack in Southern Ireland. But much was to happen before then, as Desmonde will now relate.
Chapter Five
On the morning of our departure, Father Superior came himself to my little cell to awaken me one hour earlier than usual. When I had dressed, he stood while I threw some things in my suitcase, then we went together to the church where little Petitt was awaiting us. Both he and Fr Hackett had already said their Mass, but both remained in the front seat while I said mine, and I assure you I did not omit a petition for heavenly aid in the endeavour now before me.
When I had finished, Fr Hackett took me by the arm and conducted me to his study, where Martes was standing by with good hot coffee, not the habitual refectory sludge, and fresh hot rolls. My Superior watched me in silence while I made a good meal, but refused, quite nicely, when I asked if he would take a cup.
When Martes had cleared away he said:
‘I have arranged for you to have a car to Madrid.’
‘Oh, thank you, Father. That local is a beastly train.’
‘It is not a beastly train. It is a most useful-train for our peasants and farmers taking their produce to the Madrid markets. It is, however, rather slow and uncertain in its arrival. Hence the car, not a Hispano Suiza, nevertheless a car.’
‘You are right, Father,’ I said at once. ‘I am always putting my foot in it with you.’
‘Not so much as usual, Father Desmonde. Not nearly so much. In fact, while you are far from perfect, you are a much improved young man. I have taken great pains with you, and in return,’ he paused, fixing me with a steady eye, ‘ I want you to bring the Golden Chalice to the college. It is, in itself, a bauble, a sorry trophy, but it would bring great prestige, not only to you, which is unimportant, but to the college.’
He stood up, as did I, and moved to the prie-Dieu. I followed.
‘I am going to accord you a great favour. Kneel, take this blessed relic and say a prayer for your success and mine.’
I knelt and, I assure you, with great reverence took the little hand, so smooth, the skin so pliable it had the feeling of a living hand. Gently I pressed it and it seemed as though the fingers responded, enfolding mine with a touch both intimate and tender, as though unwilling to release, unwilling to relinquish this contact with a life once experienced and remembered now in tranquillity and joy. In this manner I made a truly fervent petition, not only for immediate success, but for a good life and a happy death.
‘Well?’ said Fr Hackett, when I stood up.
‘It is miraculous. There is the touch of heaven in these fingers.’
‘You must tell that to your doctor friend who demands putrid flesh and rotting bones. Now come, it is time for you to go.’
The car, a solid little Berlier, was already in the yard and beside it, with my suitcase and his own carpet bag, Fr Petitt. When we were in the car, the luggage safely in the boot, as we set off I saw Fr Hackett make a big sign of the cross, blessing us. In the beginning I had hated this dedicated priest. Now, though he deliberately repelled all affection, I truly revered him.
In about an hour we were in Madrid and in the rapide for Rome, Fr Pettit, exercising an almost maternal solicitude upon me, imposing silence, forbidding the window to be widely opened, suspecting draughts from all points of the compass, as though I were a chicken just out of the egg. At Rome station, however, his confidence evaporated, and he was glad to have me summon a porter to transfer our bags to a taxi which I duly directed to the Hotel Religioso, where rooms tad been reserved for us by our Superior.
Alas, the Religioso was a sad blow. Piety might be practised here, but all temporal virtues were totally in abeyance. As I surveyed the bare, linoleumed, liftless hall, the precipitous, uncarpeted stairs, and finally our two monastic little rooms overlooking, the railway shunting yards, from which, amidst a grinding, snorting, puffing consortium of engines and their appendages, clouds of steam and smoke billowed towards us, my heart sank. With four full days remaining before the song festival, what a preparation for our ordeal! And I had hoped for such leisured, pleasant ease in this reunion with my favourite city.
I glanced at little Petitt. He did not mind, not a bit, but I was bitterly cast down, and at the midday meal, a polenta mélange served on a wax-clothed table with flies embracing the sauce stains, my melancholy deepened and continued until the shades of night began to fall.
And then, Alec, heaven responded to my unspoken prayers: As we sat staring at each other in what I might call the commercial room, a frightened youth in an outsize porter’s uniform approached us at the double.
‘A lady at the door, sir, in a car, asking for you.’
I made for the door, also at the double, and there, yes, yes, Alec, there in a big new Hispano Suiza was my friend the Marchesa. She had read of our arrival in the evening paper, Paese Sera di Roma, and had instantly gone into action.
‘Come, come, at once, Desmonde. You must not remain here an instant longer. I am afraid even to enter. Come to me.’
‘I have a little friend, a priest, Madame. He wouldn’t take up much room.’
‘Bring him, bring the little priest at once. Come, both of you.’
Needless to say, we did not refuse, and in no time at all we were in the big car
with our belongings, I in the back seat with Madame, Fr Pettit, still dazed, in front with the chauffeur, gliding towards distinguished affluence, leaving the youthful porter gaping in our wake, stunned by the tip I had recklessly thrust upon him.
It was after ten o’clock when we reached the Villa Penserosa, past the hour of dinner, and although refreshments were pressed upon us, I declined.
‘Dear Madame, we have been stuffed with so much polenta since we became inmates of the Religioso that all we now long for is a good restful sleep.’
‘You shall have it.’ She spoke aside to the maid who stood waiting for instructions. ‘And as you are obviously tired, I shall say buona notte until tomorrow.’
Our adjoining rooms, with a luxurious bathroom between, were, to the last detail, perfection. A suit of silk pyjamas had even been laid out on my bed. Fr Petitt had not the habit of a nightly bath, so I luxuriated for half-an-hour in deep hot soapy water, rubbed myself down with a turkish towel, donned the gift pyjamas, in which I felt more unreal than ever, and fell into bed. Instantly sleep overwhelmed me.
Next morning, agreeably late, we were awakened by breakfast: a large pot of steaming freshly roasted coffee, with a little napkin-covered basket holding a tier of warmed Roman rolls, that special and richer variety of the French croissant. When I had dressed I went downstairs to find my hostess awaiting me in her little boudoir sewing room, where all her charitable stitching was accomplished.
‘Good morning, my dear Reverend Desmonde. I see from your fresh and shining hair that you have slept well. Your little friend is safely ensconced in the library with a book. So now you belong entirely to me.’
She stood there smiling, facing the hard morning light without a qualm. Inevitably, she looked older, her hair now a silvery white, but her fine eyes were as lively and her mind as wittily alert as ever. How unutterably irresistible she must have been as a young woman. Even now she was a darling.
‘However,’ she added, ‘all fresh and dewy you may be, but where, oh, where did you get these trousers?’