by A. J. Cronin
When Desmonde returned to the presbytery, he found the Canon upstairs in the study, drinking coffee before a fine, glowing peat fire. No one could manage this intractable fuel better than the Reverend Daniel Daly.
‘They drove you back, lad. I heard the car.’ He added, inquiringly: ‘A good ten minutes ago.’
‘I went into the Church. To thank the good Lord for a wonderful Easter Sunday. To say a prayer for my little Communicants, not forgetting your kindness, and Madame’s also.’
‘Well done! Will you join me in a coffee? Ye observe I keep my vow – I had my Dew middleday.’ He handed Desmonde his cup. ‘Go in the kitchen, fill me up again and take a cup to yourself. Mrs O’B. is out, but the pot’s on the stove.’
When Desmonde returned, a cup in each hand, the Canon had drawn forward a chair for him at the other side of the fire.
‘Thank ye, Desmonde. Not bad stuff this, though it gets one up, the middle o’ the night. Did you have a good dinner down by?’
‘Quite simple, Canon. The kitchen was rather on holiday.’
‘We had a grand saddle o’ Iamb here. The best I ever put my teeth into. Mrs O’B. was real upset you missed it. She kept a bit for you for tomorrow. And mind you, cold saddle of lamb with a baked potato is even better than the hot.’ He paused, to sip coffee. By the way, I heard ye had a bit of a sing-song down by.’
Desmonde smiled. ‘Canon, you get the news in Kilbarrack even before it happens.’
‘Not at all, lad. ’Twas Patrick when he rang up to say you’d not be here for dinner. He near burst the wire. You know, lad, the more I hear of your accomplishments the more I get depressed. For it means that I shall lose you soon. The Archbishop has been speakin’ of you, your talents, your manner, your personality. He wants you in Dublin for his own entourage, or for the Cardinal. And what shall we do then? Myself, and Madame. You know she loves you, Desmonde. And so do I.’ He paused. ‘By the way, how did Madame seem to be, today?’
‘Much as usual. But she did seem upset early on.’
‘And well she might be.’ The Canon finished his coffee and put his cup down on the fender, ‘She rang me late last night, told me not to say a word to you, not to spoil your Easter Sunday.’ He shook his head. ‘On Saturday evening she had an express letter from that headmaster in Switzerland. After all the trouble she took to smooth things over, the niece has been expelled.’ The Canon drew a long distasteful breath. ‘There appears to be an Italian gentleman, if I may use the word, from Milan, where he seems to have a substantial business of an unknown nature, and is rich, aged, say twenty-eight, with one of the choicest and most expensive Italian cars, staying, presumably for tax purposes, at the most exclusive hotel on the Lake and who, like a gentleman of the type I’ve implied, has three times persuaded the niece, Claire, to break bounds at night, for purposes unknown, returning to her dormitory just before dawn.’ After this sardonic peroration the Canon paused, then, in his natural voice, added: ‘Third time out, the little bitch was bloody well caught, and deservedly.’
‘I’m terribly sorry for Madame,’ Desmonde said. ‘Is she all bad, the girl?’
‘It seems she’s like her mother. Wilful, attractive and fond of the men. Anyway, at eighteen it’s high time she was finished with school and under stricter supervision. And that is just what Madame has asked me to give her.’
‘Shouldn’t Madame take charge of her, now that she’s going to her Swiss house?’
‘And let this Italian bastard keep after her? No. No, Desmonde, she must be removed from his illicit attentions. I promise you I’ll knock some sense into her, and you must help me. I’m meeting her in Dublin the day after tomorrow. Patrick will drive me up.’
‘It’s a long journey for a young girl to take alone.’
‘Tuts! Twill all be arranged, lad. She’ll be put in the train at Geneva. At Paris a representative of the school will meet her, put her on the Calais express. At Calais it’s a step to the boat, and in London a man from Madame’s London office will put her on the train for Holyhead. And I’m on the quay waiting for her in Dunlaoghaire.’
‘Anyway, she must have made the trip several times before.’ Desmonde added: ‘Does Madame leave soon?’
The Canon nodded. ‘To add to her present woes, the boys of the Inland Revenue are asking if she intends to give up her Swiss Residence. She must get there presto, once she has settled the girl down at the Mount.’
‘Such changes!’ Desmonde said. ‘I don’t like them. Canon, if you’re not thinking of bed yet I’d like to ask you about a letter I had this morning.’
‘I saw the envelope, with the heading on it, in your mail. Don’t have anything to do with them, Desmonde. Or their Movement.’
‘You know about it, Canon?’
‘Small though it is, I do. They’re puttin’ out circulars to all the young members o’ the clergy: protest against the continuance of priestly celibacy! Pah! They’re just a bunch o’ bastards wantin’ weeman.’
‘You’re all for celibacy, Canon?’
My views on celibacy can be expressed in five words: “ Lump it and like it.” We priests are men, Desmonde, which makes it hard at times. But we are followers, disciples of our Lord Jesus, also a man, who was celibate. And from the practical point of view, what use would a wife be in a presbytery? Before long she’d be wearing the vestments and hearing confessions. Don’t you know, too, from your experience in the confessional, how many marriages are failures, bringing misery in the train – the nagging, the quarrels, the fighting, the infidelities, the get to hell out of here you bloody bitch. Less than a tenth of the marriages of today are happy and successful. And the children? Do you want half a dozen o’ them yelling, squabbling, playing hide and seek in and out o’ the confessionals?’
‘The High Anglican Church, very near to us, seems to sanction marriage with some success.’
‘They’re situated differently from us, lad. We priests live beside, or on top of our churches. The Anglican vicarage is often a mile or more away, private and secluded. Married life to them is a thing apart. No, Desmonde, the rosy dream of matrimony of any young priest is not based on reality. ’Tis just a projection of his own two balls.’
A silence fell, broken by the sound of the side door being shut and bolted, followed by the footsteps of Mrs O’Brien moving to her room below, then quietly closing her door.
‘There’s the answer to your question, Desmonde. Who could look after us better than that good, pure, I repeat, pure woman?’
He stood up and stretched. ‘ I’m weary, I’ll take the bathroom first tonight, if that’s all right with you.’
Desmonde laughed. ‘ Then I can soak a bit longer. Shall I put the light out here?’
The Canon nodded. ‘Good-night, my dear, very dear lad.’
‘Good-night, Canon, with my deep affection and dutiful respect.’
Thus ended Easter Sunday in Kilbarrack. The happiest, and the last, that Desmonde Fitzgerald would ever spend there.
Chapter Twelve
All arrangements had been made, as previewed by the Canon, and at eight-thirty on Thursday, after he had said the seven o’clock Mass to a mere handful of the faithful, and breakfasted substantially thereafter, that worthy dignitary departed for Dublin in the landaulette, driven by Patrick. He was wearing his best Sunday suit and was wrapped tightly in a thick black ulster which would undoubtedly protect him from the elements should he be obliged to wait, exposed, on the Dublin quays. His expression was firm and composed although, indeed, for a cleric who rarely quitted his own diocese, the expedition was both an excitement and an ordeal.
‘All being well,’ he remarked to Desmonde, who saw him off, ‘we’ll be back around four o’clock. Though, mind ye, I can’t guarantee the mail boat.’
‘Don’t omit your lunch, Canon,’ said Desmonde, with solicitude.
‘If I have the time, I’ll drop in at the Hibernian – they know me there,’ added the Canon, with the air of a man of the world. ‘But if I’m pus
hed,’ he made an inconsequential gesture to the left, ‘Mrs O’Brien has put up a bit of a sandwich for me.’
Glancing left, Desmonde was relieved by an outsize package on the seat, carefully wrapped in oiled paper, and bulging with assorted food. Assuredly the Canon would not starve.
‘Take care of yourself while I’m away, lad,’ cried the Canon, as the big car began to move.
What a good, simple, honest man was this old parish priest, yet strong, too, formidable in the cause of virtue. So thought Desmonde as he went towards the church. When he had said Mass he made his way over to the school. He had not visited there for some time, and after a chat with the master he went round the classes, saying a few words to the children in each, pleased by the morning freshness of the children and the greeting they all gave him.
Desmonde was still smiling as he went to the presbytery. Here Mrs O’Brien was waiting on him.
‘There’s a message for you, Father, from the Mount. ’ Twas Madame Donovan herself, she’s expecting you to lunch today. You’re to come when you’re free. A light luncheon, she said.’ Mrs O’Brien shook her head. ‘And what a pity. Here am I with two of the nicest sweetbreads ye ever saw, ready to cook for you special.’
‘I am sorry. But keep them, Mrs O’Brien. The Canon and I could share them for dinner.’
‘I will, I will. But sure, one of them is but a couple of swallows for the Canon. I’ll have to put in some chops as well. And now, there’s a sick call for you, as well. Old Mrs Conroy at the Point. She’s bedridden, you know, and would like you to take the Sacrament. I’ll give you something else for her too, she’s a poor old soul though a terrible talker.’
The Point was on the far side of the town, so Desmonde decided to take the car. After he had washed, he went back to the church, removed a host from the tabernacle and placed it in the little purse reserved for that purpose. He then drove off in the old Ford. Mrs O’Brien had already placed a parcel on the back seat.
Mrs Conroy, one of those old ladies who like to make the most of a visit from the clergy, was sitting up in bed wrapped in her best shawl, with a lace cap upon her head. Neat and tidy, adorning the poverty of the little cottage, she welcomed Desmonde with effusion.
After he had administered the Sacrament she pointed to the chair, which at her direction the neighbour who looked after her had placed beside the bed.
‘Now, Father dear, ’tis a great honour. I’m sure ye understand, the fella that was here afore ye, I disremember his name, never had it, nor deserved it, but then he was a dull sort of a clod, and never came but three or four times to me aal the time he was here. Ye are the chip of a different tree, it’s clear to see, even with my poor ould eyes, lookin’ at your dear handsome smilin’ face, and they tell me it’s wondrous things ye have accomplished, the two pigs that was killed stone dead by a truck in the market and ye put your fair blessed hands upon them and lifted them back to life, I tell ye, the neebours tell me the cheerin’ could be heared down here. What’s that you’re callin’, Lizzie, a parcel from Mrs O’Brien? God bless her, there’s a kind wumman for ye. And what would be in it? Scones, butter, the half of a boiled fowl and a hale can o’ tay! Ah, now, the saints be praised, and Mrs O’Brien too, just when we’re near outa the tay, ’tis mate and drink to me. Let Lizzie give ye a cup, Father.’
Rather than disappoint the old chatterbox. Desmonde accepted and drank the tea, which he duly praised. Thereafter he sat and listened until he felt he might leave without giving offence.
After his escape, Desmonde drove the long way round to the Mount with both car windows down, deeming it wise to aerate himself from the odours of Mrs Conroy’s bedroom, before presenting himself to Madame. Thus, it was precisely noon when he arrived.
‘You are barely in time,’ Madame said chillingly. ‘Bridget has just sent word that the soufflé is au point. Once it falls in it is of course uneatable.’
‘I have been on an errand of mercy,’ Desmonde excused himself, as he followed his hostess into the house. ‘To Mrs Conroy.’
‘That old gossip! Not half so ill as she pretends. Is she still complaining?’
‘Yes, Madame, that you don’t send her enough of your delicious hothouse tomatoes.’
‘You’ll soon see if they are delicious. With Patrick away, I warned you it would be a light lunch. Salad and cheese soufflé, followed by,’ she smiled, ‘coffee.’
They seated themselves and almost at once Bridget’s girl brought in the soufflé, golden brown, beautifully risen, puffy as an old man’s breath.
‘Tell Bridget it is a success,’ Madame said, already slicing into the glorious bubble.
Each place had already been set with oval plates heaped with a fresh vegetable salad.
‘It is unbelievably delicious. Madame.’ Desmonde sighed after a few forkfuls. ‘Like an angel’s kiss.’
‘Do they kiss up there? Don’t the wings get in the way?’
A silence followed while they devoted themselves to the food. A single glass of the same Chablis had already been poured, ice cold.
‘We were enlivened this morning,’ Madame said, looking up, ‘by the strains of martial music. A fife and drum band to be exact.’
‘I believe the Hibernians were on the war path.’
‘A route march.’
‘Possibly.’
Madame shook her head, smiling. ‘Desmonde, my dear Desmonde, Bridget’s girl, who was at the ten o’clock, brought back a very different story. You are now numbered amongst the elect, surpassing even the Canon.’ She paused to spear a reluctant slice of cucumber. ‘Did he get off safely this morning?’
‘He did, Madame, exactly to the second, fully accoutred and stocked with rations, against all hazards and contingencies.’
‘What a dear old man he is – simple, faithful, strong and true. A saint, in fact. I love him.’ She added: ‘Even when he annoys me.’
‘Have you a grain of affection left over? For his curate?’
‘Don’t tease me today, dearest Desmonde. You know you have become half of my life. And I shall miss you dreadfully for three whole months. How I wish you could come to my place in Burier. It is quite lovely, and large, a real country house. I hate to be confined. Lots of parkland and a heavenly view of Leman. A convent near, at La Tour de Peilz, very convenient in Protestant Switzerland, where I hear Mass in the little chapel. Beauty, peace, complete isolation. But no Desmonde. And, besides, I shall worry all the time about Claire.’ She paused. ‘ I dread meeting her today. We are always at odds. She is exactly like my poor sister, intractable, irresponsible, unpredictable. I have begged the Canon to try and put some sense in her. And you must try, too, Desmonde. Can you stay with me till they arrive?’
‘I am free all afternoon, Madame.’
‘Splendid! Then we’ll have coffee in the sun room, and afterwards you must sing for me.’
‘Won’t you… try to sing with me?’
She smiled, sadly. ‘I am not Trilby, and you, Desmonde, are not Svengali, if such people ever existed. No, my phrenic nerve is irreparably gone. Yet my speech, thank God, is not impaired.’
She rose, gracefully, as usual. ‘I’m afraid that’s all. No good offering you cheese after the soufflé.’
The afternoon had passed, ecstatically as planned, and now, some three hours later, having taken tea, they were seated on the long settee m the sun room.
‘Desmonde,’ she murmured. ‘This, I believe, has been the sweetest afternoon of my life.’
‘You speak for me, too, Madame.’
‘Tinged, intensified, by the agony of separation, Desmonde.’ She paused. ‘ I must leave within the next few days, first to Dublin, where I shall spend a week at the office, reviewing everything, then to Geneva. So this may be the only time I shall be with you alone.’ She took both of his hands. ‘I therefore wish you to know, that once I have persuaded my friends at the Inland Revenue that I am back in Switzerland, I shall take the express that goes direct, through the Simplon, to Milan, and there
I shall proceed to the firm of Moreno and Calvi, expert in all arts and skills appertaining to ecclesiastical marble. Desmonde, because of you, I intend, at last, to embellish my church with altar rails of the finest Carrara marble. There I will kneel when I receive the Eucharist from you.’
‘I am overwhelmed, Madame. And the Canon will be in the seventh heaven.’
‘You may have the pleasure of bringing him the good news. So that is settled.’ She stood up, still holding his hands. ‘Desmonde, just this once, it may be a sin, I do not care. I embrace you as a woman who loves a man.’
Opening her arms, she took him to her, offering all her body, withholding nothing. Their lips met in a long, exquisite, prolonged kiss.
Where this might have ended must remain in doubt, since the crunch of the big car on the gravel caused reason to intervene. They drew apart, and almost at once the Canon burst in, buttoned to the throat and followed by a tall, thin girl with a white, dirty face, the front of her dress stained with vomit, her big dark, weary eyes drawn fearfully towards Madame.
‘So you are back. Canon,’ pale and breathing rapidly, Madame managed to remark.
‘As ye see, Madame, safe and sound. And with your young lady, who’s a bit the worse o’ the wear. ’Tis a deadly crossin’ from Holyhead when the wind’s high. Waitin’ there on the quay I was glad of my ulster.’
‘You did famously, Canon, and I am grateful.’
‘’Tis a pleasure to serve you, Madame, and as I happened to be in Dublin I took the liberty of calling at the warehouse for the case ye so kindly promised me.’
‘That was wisely done.’ Madame inclined her head. ‘Claire, you may go to your usual room. I am quite sure you need nothing to eat. Take a bath first.’
‘Thank you, Auntie. And thank you, Canon.’ Claire turned and went out.
A brief silence followed.
‘I took the further liberty, Madame, of asking Patrick to wait. I thought you might kindly permit him to finish the day by drivin’ us home.’
‘Naturally, he will do so. I am sure you are weary yourself, so I will not detain you.’