by A. J. Cronin
‘It’s all due to Madame Donovan, Father. She loves the boys’ voices, in really fine part singing, so of course she had to have them.’
‘You’ve trained them splendidly. And you know your timing well.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ He paused. ‘If you’re on your rounds, and free, one day perhaps you’d call in on my wife and me, and our new baby.’ He smiled shyly. ‘ We’re very proud of him.’
‘I will, I will.’ Desmonde lapsed into the Irish idiom, then shook hands, smiled to the boys and went out of the church, still barely recovered from what he had seen and heard therein.
At the presbytery Mrs O’Brien met him in the hall.
‘The Canon is back, Father Desmonde. And he’ll see you at supper. Which I’m serving right away. Would you care to go into the dining room, the door’s open and there’s a nice fire for ye.’
Desmonde washed his hands and went into the big dining room, where a glowing peat fire lit up the fine old mahogany furniture: table, chairs, sideboard, all of that solid, serviceable wood. At the double windows he had a striking prospect of the distant sea, some fine fields and woodlands, and, the roof visible amongst the trees, a large country house.
‘Do you like our view, Father Desmonde?’
Canon Daly had asked the question. A short thickset man with the chest and arms of a coalheaver, a round cannon ball of a head, dusted with grey, topped by a red biretta and without benefit of neck, sunk deep into the massive shoulders. His face was brick red, with deep-set honest blue eyes, his expression candid, open, but with the capacity to be formidable.
‘I do like your view, Canon. And I love, am completely bowled over, by your magnificent, most tasteful and artistic church.’
‘Ay, there’s none to beat it. I was pleased your first thought was to go down to it.’
Mrs O’Brien had now brought in supper. A noble joint of beef, side dishes of potatoes and green vegetable.
‘Sit in,’ said the Canon. He took his place at the head of the table and picked up the carvers, which he proceeded to use with such vigour and dexterity that Desmonde quickly had before him a plateful of well sliced beef, floury potatoes and fresh spring cabbage.
‘We are not fancy here, but we get enough to eat.’
‘It’s delicious, Canon,’ Desmonde responded after the first few mouthfuls. He had eaten little during the journey, and now joined the Canon in attacking the good food with enthusiasm.
Watching him covertly, the Canon seemed pleased.
‘I’m glad you’re no’ one o’ they fancy finnickers as I feared ye might be. In fact ye’re a hale lot better than the Roman dude I was led to expect.’
‘I’m no Italian, Canon, just an Irishman who has lived a long time in Scotland.’
‘Do ye say so? Well, well, ye’re like myself. I was near eighteen years in Winton with my parents before they came back to their homeland. And you can tell it frae the way I talk.’
‘Your accent makes me feel at home, Canon, and it suits your rugged strength.’
When full justice had been done to the main course, Mrs O’Brien cleared and brought in a deep dish apple tart, then quietly went out.
‘You’ve got the right side o’ Mrs O’B. already, lad. She was a’ excited when I came in, singin’ your praises.’ He handed out a generous section of apple pie with lots of juice, and helped himself in similar fashion. ‘And I think the world o’ her opinion. She’s been with me over twenty years and never has she failed me.’
‘The church, Canon. Your superb church. How under high heaven did you get it? I know Ireland and the Irish. You never got it from the pennies of Kilbarrack.’
‘You are dead right, lad. A’ the pennies in a’ the collection boxes in a’ the country, for ten years, would never have built it.’ He had finished his dessert and, rising, he went to the sideboard, took up the bottle that stood, openly, thereon, and measured into his tumbler exactly two fingers of amber liquid.
‘I got it from this, lad, and from the most lovely pious, charitable, munificent lady in all Ireland.’
Burning with curiosity, Desmonde watched the Canon sit down and hold the glass up for his inspection.
‘I don’t allow liquor in the house, lad. But I’m an old man, and this is different. It is the one drink I have in the day, two fingers, and not a drop more, of Mountain Dew.’
Desmonde was now wildly interested, but he dare not press the Canon, who took, a little sip of Mountain Dew, inhaled slowly, then set it down tenderly, saying:
‘The finest, purest, maist exquisite and devilish expensive malt whisky in a’ the world. Made, with the finest peat water and bottled in a special Donegal distillery, matured at least six years in bond, then sold by the Dublin office all over the world, to them that likes the best. And owned, lock, stock and barrel, by the lovely lady who planned, built, decorated and paid for our darlin’ church.’
After this peroration the Canon took another little sip, and gazed benignly at Desmonde, who murmured:
‘What a wonderful thing to do. She must be a most charitable old lady.’
At this, the Canon burst suddenly into a wild fit of laughter in which he was joined by Mrs O’Brien who had come in to remove the dessert.
‘Aye, she is charitable,’ the Canon resumed, when quiet was restored. ‘I’d be feared to tell ye what it a’ cost. There was just one thing left out, worse luck, by sheer oversight. Did ye notice the altar rails?’
‘Actually, I did, Canon. Very old, and wooden. Rather out of place.’
‘Ye see, ye noticed it right away. But never mind, lad, I’ll have them changed one of these days for a set worthy of the church. It’s the main object of my life now. I’m hintin’ at it to Madame Donovan a’ the time.’
‘Madame Donovan!’ Desmonde echoed.
‘You know the name?’
‘Never heard it in my life until I came here.’
‘Well, ye’ll hear it plenty now. That’s her house ye were lookin’ at through the window. And forbye she has another beautiful residence in Switzerland.’
‘Why on earth Switzerland.’
The Canon’s left eye, viewed over the glass, took a slow, significant droop and he murmured a single word:
‘Taxes.’
Allowing this to penetrate, he added: ‘Madame is not only a lovely, accomplished, talented woman, but as clever and tough a business woman as you’d meet in the City of London. If you knew her history you’d know I am speakin’ the truth.’
A silence followed while the Canon enjoyed and finished his Mountain Dew. Then, in a different manner:
‘I was prepared for a hard case before ye came, lad. And to deal with you hard. However, from what I see of you, the trouble simply is, ye’ve had far too much social life, gaddin’ about Rome and gaein’ to parties wi’ rich,’ here he looked at Mrs O’Brien, ‘ old ladies. In fact ye’ve been a bit o’ a playboy. So my order is this: and if ye look at my ugly auld face ye’ll see I’m a man to be obeyed: no invitations to be accepted here without my permission.”
‘Yes, Canon.’
‘Ye understand.’
‘The schoolmaster, Canon, whom I met in the church, asked me to look at his first-born baby.’
‘Babies is different. Ye may go, but don’t stay, just look, say somethin’ nice, then out.’
‘Yes, Canon.’
‘Good! Now, we’re early bedders here, and as I’m sure ye’re tired after the journey ye may turn in now if ye wish. I’ll take the ten o’clock and you’ll do the eight. Michael’s always in the vestry, he’ll show ye a’. Mrs O’Brien will wake ye in the mornin’. Now, a good-night to ye, lad. And it may please ye that what I have seen o’ ye is highly satisfactory.’
In Desmonde’s room, all his damp things had been dried, ironed and neatly laid out, the bed was turned down and a hot-water bottle placed between the immaculate sheets. When he had knelt to say his usual prayer, and glanced at the two familiar photographs on the bureau, he got into bed and, with a
profound feeling of gratitude, closed his eyes.
His first day at Kilbarrack had been a most surprising success.
Chapter Two
At half past seven Desmonde, refreshed by a sound sleep, was in the church where Michael, in the vestry, had laid out the vestments for the day.
‘Usually we have only a scattering at the early Mass, your reverence. But there’s quite a crowd this morning.’
‘Piety, Michael? Or curiosity?’
‘Maybe a touch of both, your reverence.’
Now Desmonde, in fact, was himself in a state of high curiosity in regard to the donor of the superb church.
‘Does Madame Donovan, by any chance, frequent the eight o’clock Mass?’
‘She does indeed, sir, every week day and the ten o’clock on Sundays. That’s her own private little pew at the end of the front seat.’
‘Indeed, Michael.’
‘But she’s not here this mornin’, being in Dublin on business at her office. They do say, however, that she’ll be back Saturday.’
Desmonde knew always when he had said a good Mass rather than one impaired by personal worries and distractions. He was satisfied with himself when he had left the altar, made his thanksgiving, and returned to the presbytery.
After an excellent breakfast he set out for his initial tour of Kilbarrack. How pleasant to be saluted and greeted as he made his way down to the Cross Square. Not all, however, were so friendly. Outside Mulvaney’s tavern on Front Street the crowd of youths and men idling on the corner were silent, barely allowing him passage room, and when he had gone, following him with laughter and rude remarks. Desmonde was not perturbed, for the Canon had warned him that this was the pest spot of the town.
Recollecting the invitation of the schoolmaster, he inquired the way to Curran Street where, closely regarded by the neighbours, he knocked several times on the door of No. 29. He had decided to avoid an afternoon call lest he be pressed to stay for tea and so contravene the Canon’s injunction.
Now, however, there was no response except for sounds of an infant’s wailing coming from inside the little house, so, as the door stood ajar, Desmonde pushed it open and went in. And there, in the corner of a neat living room, a sweet little baby was howling its head off in its cot. Embarrassing, no doubt, but not for Desmonde.
He immediately went forward, picked up the child, burped it, and cradling it warmly against his breast, began to pace up and down the room, singing Schubert’s ‘Frühlingslied’, which he conceived to be the nearest thing to a lullaby. The result was magical. The little thing snuggled against him and immediately went to sleep.
Elated by his success, Desmonde dared not spoil it by putting the baby down and so continued singing and walking up and down the room. The front door, meanwhile, had blown open and in no time at all, a gathering of the neighbouring women, mostly in their morning déshabillé, had clustered round on the pavement like bees round a honey pot, and were even pressing into the house.
‘Oh, God, Janie, take a peek at his reverence.’
‘Did ye ever in your life? ’Tis the new swate young Father from Rome.’
‘He may be young, begor, but he can handle the wean.’
‘Oh, God, ’tis a lovely sight, and the lilt o’ the voice of him, the doat.’
Then one, bolder than the rest, exclaimed:
‘Excuse me, Father. Mrs Lavin has just slipped out a minute to the baker’s up the street.’
The room was slowly filling up, causing Desmonde some anxiety, not for himself but for the child. He decided to go outside to meet the mother.
‘Gangway, please! Gangway for his majesty the baby.’
Once he was outside in the cool air he felt more comfortable. But he had reckoned not of his audience. As he padded slowly up the street, still crooning, to keep the child asleep, his followers, swollen by more and more spectators dashing out from their homes, had become a legion.
Worse was to follow. Janie Magonigle at the outset had shouted to her own little nipper:
‘Tommy, dear, sprint down to the Shamrock office and beg Mick Riley to slip up quick with his camera.’
Scenting a sensation Mick had obliged, and before Desmonde reached the baker’s, he responded to a call from behind, turned, and was startled by two sharp clicks.
‘Thanks, your reverence. We’ll have ye in the Shamrock Saturday.’
At this precise moment, fortified by a long chat with the baker’s wife, Mrs Lavin came out of the shop, a loaf under each arm.
‘Oh, dear Lord, what in all the world…!’
Even as she ran forward, Desmonde soothed her, then briefly explained all.
‘Will you take him now?’
‘I can’t with the bread, Father. He’s sleeping so good and peaceful with you, please, please take him back with me to the house.’
It was a procession to arrest and enchant the eye. The young priest with the baby, the young wife with the loaves, followed by a horde of ecstatic admirers. Mick Riley had finished his film by the time they reached No. 29 Curran Street.
‘Come in, do come in, Father,’ the mother breathed, in a visible tremor, as she flung the loaves on to the hall table.
‘Another time,’ Desmonde answered hurriedly. ‘I’m due back at the presbytery. But let me tell you this, you’ve got the best and sweetest baby I’ve ever held in my arms.’
The infant was handed over, still angelically fast asleep, and Desmonde set off hard for the upper town. But not before three hearty cheers were called for him, and with these still ringing in his ears he dashed into the presbytery, hoping that subsequent days in Kilbarrack would be less memorable than his first.
At supper that evening the Canon remarked casually:
‘Old lady Donovan will be back from Dublin on Saturday, Desmonde. No doubt you’ll see her on Sunday.’
‘Did she telephone you, Canon?’
‘No, indeed. And it may interest you to know how news travels in Kilbarrack. This morning Madame telephoned Patrick, her butler. Patrick naturally gave the news to Bridget, his wife. Bridget told the girl in the kitchen, who told the milkman when he called, the milkman then told Mrs O’Brien and Mrs O’Brien told me.’
Desmonde smiled. ‘ You know the event before it happens!’
‘Yes, lad.’ The Canon leaned forward and patted Desmonde’s hand reassuringly. ‘And that’s why I know you’ll be front page news, with photographs, next Saturday morning. Now don’t upset yourself, I understand it was all done with the best intentions, and ’twill do ye a power of good in the parish.’
Chapter Three
Sunday dawned warm and fine, hopeful harbinger of a good summer, a season of the year that Desmonde loved, particularly since he had known the benign, perennial sunshine of Spain. The Canon had announced that his curate would take the ten o’clock Mass, while he, though preaching at the ten, would take the eight o’clock. This unusual arrangement puzzled Desmonde, until his superior, sitting across at breakfast, remarked, with a side glance at Mrs O’Brien who had just come in with a rack of fresh toast:
‘I want to display you in style to the old woman. It would suit my purpose fine if she sort of took to ye.’ The Canon added: ‘What the purpose might be ye’ll learn in the Lord’s good time.’
This pre-arrangement annoyed Desmonde. He had no wish to be made a puppet in the Canon’s schemes and made up his mind to ignore the private pew, whether occupied or empty, at the end of the front seat.
When the ten o’clock bells had ceased and he was fully robed and approved by Michael, he followed the four little altar boys dressed as friars to the altar with his eyes determinedly lowered. Yet as the Mass proceeded in this fashion he was absurdly and annoyingly conscious of a scrutiny, penetrating and prolonged, on himself and all his actions.
After the gospel, the Canon ascended the pulpit to preach; Desmonde, two little boys on either side, was seated on the right side of the altar. Only then did he direct a cold and impassive glance towards the priva
te pew. He started, started so visibly and with such surprise that his little acolytes looked at him in wonder.
A young woman was in the pew, stylishly, elegantly dressed in a grey tussore silk suit, a flat-brimmed straw hat tilted rakishly on her nut brown hair and, with a calm, self-possessed expression, she was deliberately studying him. As her cold grey eyes met his and did not fall or falter, he immediately averted his gaze. This was not Madame Donovan, perhaps her daughter, or some rich relation, and her open, rude curiosity in regard to himself he found both objectionable and offensive.
The Canon had now concluded his sermon, notably shorter than usual, and during the succeeding hymn the collection baskets were being passed. Out of the corner of one eye Desmonde noted that this modish interloper, in her expensive clothes, contributed nothing, not even a silver sixpence.
The hymn over, Desmonde returned to the altar and proceeded with the service. At the Communion he did not expect the woman to receive the Sacrament. He was wrong, she knelt, last of all, at the altar rails, and as he placed the Eucharist upon her tongue he saw with relief that her eyes were closed.
Soon the Mass was over. A final hymn, and Desmonde returned to the vestry. His thanksgiving completed, he hurried to the presbytery, eager for his breakfast-lunch and for enlightenment on the mystery of the woman.
The Sunday midday meal of roast beef was not quite au point, but Mrs O’Brien had coffee and a toasted scone on the dining room table for Desmonde to break his fast.
‘Canon,’ exclaimed Desmonde, when he had swallowed his coffee, ‘who is that excessively rude young woman in Madame’s pew?’
The Canon exchanged a look with Mrs O’Brien who had come in with fresh coffee.
‘You mean that good lookin’ one in the good claes and the swanky wee hat?’
‘Exactly! Was it Madame’s daughter?’
‘Could it be the granddaughter?’
‘Possibly! She looked young enough!’
‘Desmonde!’ The Canon glanced at Mrs O’Brien repressively. ‘We’re not makin’ fun o’ ye. And our bit of a joke has gone far enough. You fancied Madame an old woman, and we had a little fun over it. That was Madame Donovan herself in the pew this morning!’