by A. J. Cronin
‘Ravenous!’
‘Of course, I must warn you that you will not get anything half as satisfying as Mrs O’Brien’s Sunday dinner. What is it to be today?’
‘Boiled pork, I believe, with whole onion sauce.
‘How the good Canon will snore after that! I admire and esteem the Canon, Desmonde, but sometimes he is too possessive. My beautiful church was not given to him but’ – she lowered her voice – ‘ to Almighty God, for His most blessed help and support during a period of suffering and trial.’
Desmonde was silent for a moment, then he said quietly: ‘ I would wish you to understand, my dear, most dear Madame Donovan, that I would never, but never, accept your most kind and welcome invitations, to use and debase them, by seeking some advantage, spiritual or temporal, from you.’
She pressed his arm, turned, and looked at him.
‘I knew that, Desmonde, from the moment I saw you.’
The melodious notes of a gong broke into the silence of this touching intimacy.
‘My punctual Patrick is calling.’ They went into the house. ‘There is the wash room. And at the end of the passage, the dining room. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
The dining room was all Chippendale, polished and gleaming, the long formal table unset but, by the window where the sun came in, a small oval side table laid very elegantly for two.
‘Isn’t this cosier?’ she said, coming in. ‘ I always feed here by choice.’
They sat down. She was still wearing her fetching little straw hat.
‘Madame,’ Desmonde was compelled to say, ‘I must still use the word with discretion, in a personal sense, but may I tell you that I love your darling little hat. It’s a Boulter’s Lock Sunday hat. I want to take you on the river.’
‘Could you punt? In your Burberry?’
‘No, but I could look at you, lying languidly on cushions in the stern, an unopened parasol by your side, one lovely hand trailing in the cool, limpid water, as we glide under drooping willows.’
She smiled, looking happily into his eyes. Then she collected herself and looked away.
‘I warn you, Desmonde, you will get nothing but fish here today. And it was all in the sea not later than six o’clock this morning.’
Patrick was now serving the soup, in two-handled thin Dresden bowls, and whispering in Desmonde’s ear, ‘Good-day to your reverence. ’Tis the bisk domard.’
The thick lobster soup was delicious, floating with little ends of claw and served with cheese straws and a blob of cream on top.
‘Again?’ asked Madame Donovan. ‘If you will, I will. There’s not much to follow.’
‘Oh, please. It’s delicious.’
After the second serving of soup there was a pause while the butler carefully uncorked a mildewed bottle.
‘Don’t decant it, Patrick.’
‘Will Madame try it?’
She made a gesture of negation.
‘It ought to be all right. It’s been waiting long enough.’
The clear, amber wine was poured. Desmonde sipped and looked at his hostess across the little table, with silent reverence. It was a venerable Chablis, mellowed to a honeyed fragrance.
‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘It’s awfully good. And so rare, we must finish the bottle.’
Now the next course was being served. Grilled fillets of sole, garnished with anchovies, and ringed on the platter by honest Irish mashed potatoes.
‘Eat lots,’ Madame said. ‘There’s only fruit salad to follow.’
The delicious fish, grilled to a turn and impeccably fresh, was irresistible. Desmonde did not reject the platter when it came round again. Nor, indeed, did Madame.
And afterwards, how cooling and refreshing was the compote of fresh fruits, well chilled and served in antique silver communion cups.
‘Coffee in the sun room.’
They seated themselves on the big settee facing the window to drink the strong, black mocha. Desmonde, suffused by a euphoria almost beatific, felt his eyes drawn compulsively towards her.
‘Well … what next?’ she asked, smiling. ‘Do you wish to emulate the worthy Canon?’
‘That is an insult, Madame … as if I could leave you.’
‘We could rest on separate ends of the sofa. It is most comfortable, perfectly pure, and known. I understand, as toe to toe.’
‘Are you sleepy, Madame?’
‘Decidedly not.’
‘Then I must speak to you, Madame, if you permit, of a matter which has been on my mind, insistently, from the moment I saw you.’
‘Yes?’ she murmured, doubtfully. Surely, helped by the Chablis, he was not about to make some premature declaration that would spoil everything. No, he was not. Taking her hand, he said, very seriously:
‘Dear Madame, ever since our first meeting at Mount Vernon, I have had the conviction that I had seen and heard you before. And now, after two delightful hours spent intimately in your presence, I must tell you how insistently you remind me of Geraldine Moore who in Winton some years ago brought me to my feet, cheering like mad, by her sublime performance as Lucia, in Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor.’ He paused. ‘And then your lovely portrait in the hall … as Lucia.’
She seemed slightly put out, then she smiled.
‘Ah, Donizetti, how he could wind himself round your heartstrings. But, my dear Desmonde, I thought all of Ireland, including your dear self, knew that I was Geraldine Moore before my marriage and that for four years I had sung with D’Oyly Carte and the Carl Rosa. And I recollect that I did sing Lucia during that visit. And also, I believe, Tosca.’
‘We heard you, Madame, in Tosca, my friend and I. We left the theatre in tears.’
She half smiled: ‘You can blame Puccini for that, not me.’
‘Then, why, dear Madame…?’
She stood up. ‘One day, Desmonde, when we know each other better. I will bore you with the story of my life. Now, what we both need is a good brisk walk. Give me a moment to change my shoes and I will show you the short cut from Mount Vernon to the church.’
They set off uphill through the grounds, crossing trim lawns that surrounded the rose garden and the little pillared pseudo Greek summer house, which stood beside a well-tended en-tout-cas tennis court.
‘I keep this in good order, since some of my office staff like to play, when they come down. My school-girl niece likes to play, too.’
Now they were in the big orchard.
‘All apples, and a few plums,’ she said. ‘We can’t grow much else here.’
And finally they reached the pine wood. Desmonde saw that a path had been cleared through the trees.
‘It’s all good walking,’ she said. ‘I have it trimmed regularly. And look, over the tops of the trees, you can just see the roof of the church.’
‘It is lovely,’ he said. ‘What a view!’
‘Yes … I come up here every day to look.’ She held out both her hands. ‘Now, go and wake the Canon. And come again soon … soon.’
She turned and was gone.
Chapter Six
The blight of Lent had now fallen upon St Teresa’s, and the worthy Canon, who loved his joint of prime beef, his leg and saddle of lamb, his fat boiled pork, and perhaps best of all, his daily dram of Mountain Dew, yes, the worthy Canon who disciplined others, was even more severe upon himself. He abstained and fasted rigidly. In a word, he suffered. It was in this season and in this mood that he composed and discharged his famous thunderbolts.
During the month, as a further penance, the Canon took the eight o’clock Mass, Desmonde the ten o’clock, and after the Gospel of this Mass, while Desmonde and his servants sat beside the altar, the Canon mounted the pulpit to preach.
Today, the second Sunday in Lent, the church was packed to the doors, a tense and quivering congregation, aware from experience of what to expect, as the Canon a long lace surplice over his scarlet soutane, and red biretta firmly anchored on his skull, slowly mounted the rostrum and, with a brooding
brow, turned, faced his audience and paused. The pause lengthened until, in a rising crescendo, with a voice of Stentor, there came forth, thrice repeated, to a final shout:
‘Hell! Hell! Hell!’
When the shock wave beneath him had passed, the Canon began.
‘Do I utter that dreadful word as an oath, as a foul and ribald curse to be tossed about by, and between, the ungodly on the street corners or in the pubs? Go to hell! The bloody hell with you! A hell of a good time! Damn it to hell! I’ll see you in hell before I stand you another.
‘No! I speak of hell as the bottomless fiery pit into which, to their everlasting doom, Satan and his rebel angels were hurled from heaven. Hell, the tortured, hopeless home of the damned throughout the ages. Hell, the inevitable ending, of the wicked, the fearful bourne to which come all who spit in the face of God, of those, even in this congregation, now before me, who persistently refuse Grace and die, God help them, in mortal sin, and are plunged into Gehenna to join the infernal legions of the damned, writhing, entangled in their agony. Did you never pause to contemplate the fearful unending agony of the damned? Did you ever burn your finger, holding the match short, when you lit your pipe? Would you ever want to try and hold a finger for one minute only in the flame of a simple tallow candle? Never! No one but an idiot would so harm himself. Reflect, then, on such a pain, multiplied a million times, and suffered all over your body. Not for one minute, not for a million years, but for all eternity.
‘Immersed in a boiling lava, flames ablaze around and upon ye, suffocated by the smoke, steam and all the foul stinks and spume of the inferno, pronged and tortured by a’ the little devils with red hot forks and pincers, the groans, the shrieks and the curses of a’ the other lost souls about ye, a seething, writhing, intermingled mass of hellish agony, and through it all, the wan continuous torturing, eternal thought that ye have only yerselves to blame, that ye had yer chance and threw it back, with a curse, in the face of the Almighty, that if only ye had listened to yer poor auld Canon on a certain Sunday, ye wad be above, in Heaven, in the company and companionship of the Elect where, clearly seen, mind ye, where reigns light, sweetness and eternal joy in the Divine Presence of the risen Lord.’
Silence, complete, deathly, followed this peroration. And the Canon was quick to seize the advantage.
‘I speak to all here in this beautiful church, this veritable Cathedral, gift of the munificent, saintly lady, our Madame Donovan. Many of you, thank God, are good true practising Catholics. But there are others,’ the Canon’s voice rose, ‘you at the back there, jammed in the back seat, slinkin’ in to stand by the door, you that never take your coat off for an honest day’s work, but only for a fight. You that get corns on your behinds, wearin’ out the arses of your trousers, sittin’ on the pavement with your backs to the wall of the corner pub. And you bedizened Jezebels, hidin’ yourselves with pretended modesty behind the pillars, you what gets yoursels aal done up pretty with the powder and paint, puts on a fancy shawl, and strolls out of an evening by the front, seeking whom you may devour … and God pity the poor fool when he wakes up of a mornin’. To you I say, and to all in this church, steeped in the filth of Mortal Sin, I say again, the eye of the Avenging Angel is upon you. And if you deny that, and toss it off with a curse, then I tell ye: Mine is!’
Seated on the narrow bench, weighted down by his heavy vestments and deafened by the Canon’s thunder. Desmonde felt himself begin to wilt. His meagre breakfast, scrupulously apportioned, did nothing to sustain him – he was not built to live on Lenten fare, and to ask a dispensation would be sheer futility. Wistfully he thought of his dear friend, absent so many years now from Mount Vernon, wondering what could delay her return, pervaded by a sense of longing to be with her again.
He had been out, on his daily rounds, when she telephoned ten days ago, and the Canon had taken the message that she must leave immediately for Switzerland. Could this be for fiscal reasons? Impossible! Her three consecutive months in summer, spent at her residence near Vevey, must surely maintain her necessary Swiss domicile, already well established by law.
Puzzled and confused, he had a sudden longing that Madame might return soon. But at that moment, a long sigh of repletion, followed by the scraping of chairs and boots, warned him that the sermon was over. He stood up while the Canon stalked by, genuflecting in passing to the tabernacle.
Immediately Desmonde returned to the altar and, with increasing fatigue, succeeded in completing the Mass. Within twenty minutes he was upstairs in the presbytery.
He went immediately to his room and lay down on his bed, already made and spread with a clean coverlet by Mrs O’Brien. After a few moments of complete inertia his thoughts returned to Madame and, once again, to wonder if she had returned. The nature of her absence remained an enigma. And why, why must his thoughts turn so insistently to this woman, herself, in a sense, an enigma? Was he in love with her? He stirred restlessly. Pure love was permitted between man and woman, and she was, admittedly, ten years older than himself. But how sweet she was, how lovely, fragrant and charming, witty too, and with a keen and lively intelligence…
The faint sound of the gong, always tactfully muted by Mrs O’Brien in the Lenten season, forced him to his feet. In the dining room the Canon was already seated, mournfully regarding the small plate of macaroni cheese which, with its counterpart at Desmonde’s place, constituted the sole decoration of the table.
As Desmonde sat down he felt the Canon raise his eyes, a glance that was considerate, almost tender.
‘You’re pale, lad. ’Twas a long Mass. I’m going to break the rules and give you a glass of sherry.’
‘Only if you take one also, Canon.’
The Canon, who had half risen, sank back, reached out across the table and took Desmonde’s hand. He pressed it, warmly.
‘That is a sign, of true affection and regard. I shall treasure it. And so we’ll suffer together.’
‘At any rate, you gave us a smashing sermon.’
‘Smashing, maybe.’ The Canon carefully conveyed a string of macaroni to his jaws. ‘But I’ll tell you straight. The maist o’ the bloody lot o’ them will have forgotten it a’ before they’re half way down the hill to Murphy’s shebeen. Do you think there’s enough cheese in this sludge? It’s tarnation tasteless. And why don’t they grow the macaroni thicker?’
No answer was expected. The Canon resumed.
‘Mind ye, lad, I don’t go a’ the way wi’ the med-evil conception o’ devils wi’ toasting forks, I only use it to try and frighten them. But there is a hell and the punishment is the worst of a’, sadness and desolation, the loss for ever of the sight and presence of our Divine Lord. And I tell ye, lad, I’m downright depressed, not alone by the state of the parish, but by the immoral condition of the whole bloody world, at large.’
Another string gone, sucked off the fork.
‘There’s na difference now, at all, at all, between what’s right and what’s wrong. Everything goes. Cheating in business, infidelity in marriage, in the beastly irregularities of sex at all ages. Go down by the pier of an evening. What do ye see, washed out by the tide; a shoal of filthy condoms, like diseased fish, floatin’ out to God’s ocean, as evidence of man’s immorality.’
The Canon skilfully forked and engulfed the last of the macaroni.
‘I’ll tell you straight, Desmonde lad, in no uncertain terms – the world of today is fucking its way to hell!’
Having delivered this powerful aphorism the Canon picked up his plate and, with a circular motion of his large tongue, licked it clean of sauce.
‘There now – clean as a whistle. No need to wash it at all, at all.’
He rose and patted Desmonde on the shoulder.
‘Now out you go for a breath of air. ’ Twill dae ye good. Stroll down to the Mount and see if Madame is back yet.’
Chapter Seven
Desmonde left the presbytery by the side door, cheered by the kindness of the Canon, a man of iron rarely given
to expressions of approval or affection. The lane leading to the wood was steep. Desmonde took it slowly, pausing when he reached the great belt of trees above, then, resisting the temptation to rest on the grassy dell that marked the end of the lane, he entered the private cutting that reached down to Mount Vernon.
The resinous scent of the firs was reviving, full of promise of the estate beneath. Desmonde felt his spirits liven and his heart quicken. How fond he had become of the lovely old house which, within and without, fitted so exactly his sense of beauty and good taste. Perhaps, too, though he doubted this, the lady of the manor would have returned, Madame Donovan, his friend, his dear friend whom he loved, in the best and purest expression of that noble feeling.
Alas, when he broke from the wood and Mount Vernon lay exposed beneath, the house was shuttered, the garden deserted. Nevertheless, he went down, pausing to study the little Greek atrium which served as a tennis pavilion, then on to the terrace of the great house. Here he began to walk up and down, enjoying an amusing, vicarious sense of ownership.
Suddenly the front door swung open and there, in her best Sunday clothes, was Bridget.
‘Oh, your Reverence, do please come in. To see you walkin’ outside, like a born stranger!’
‘But you are all closed up, Bridget.’
‘Not at all, sir. I’ll have the blinds of the sun saloon up in, a second. Madame would never forgive me if I left you out there, all by your lone. And an’ all, there’s a letter for ye.’
The prospect of the letter was decisive. Desmonde followed Bridget into the house and, true to her word, she quickly rattled up the Venetian blinds of the sun room then, before he could stay her, she put a match to the kindling beneath the logs arranged in the fireplace at the far end of the room.