by A. J. Cronin
‘Shall we play again?’
‘I don’t want to overdo it, Desmonde. You’ll feel stiff tomorrow from that overhead serve. But do come again on Monday. I’ll be seeing you, Sunday, in church. Take your shower now before you cool off. I’ll bring my dressing gown over tomorrow, so I can take one too. It’s more companionable by far.’
She got to her feet and, before skipping down the steps, planted, a light kiss on his cheek.
On her way to the house she turned twice to wave her racquet and to blow another kiss.
Chapter Fifteen
Great excitement now animated Kilbarrack as the cry went round ‘the Eyetalians are here’. Accompanied by numerous crates, large and small, four quiet, debonair little men had been welcomed by the Canon and shown in state to their hotel. Almost immediately the work on the altar rails began. And how skilfully, how expertly did it proceed. And so silently, since the Canon, after some misguided attempts to interfere, was obliged to watch, which he did almost continuously, without words. And with what envy did he regard Desmonde, chatting away to them, making them smile, and chatter back.
‘What was that a’ about?’ snarled the good Canon.
‘They are happy to be here, and with the accommodation so kindly provided. But as they are all highly skilled and experienced technicians they wish not to be disturbed. Also they have brought with them all their own delicious food and wine and wish no food from the hotel.’
‘Ma Goad!’ groaned the Canon, ‘What will Dolan do with a’ them lashin’s o’ macaroni I made him buy?’
Not alone was the Canon in his silent vigil. Piety suddenly became the rage in Kilbarrack, crowds flocking to the church to cross themselves, kneel, stare, and wonder.
‘Have ye been up the day, yet, Mick?’
‘I have indade, but I’ll go up with ye again. ’ Tis as good as the theayatre. The way them little fellers slide around in their sandals, knowin’ where everything goes and slidin’ it in like clockwork. And a lovely job ’twill be when it’s done, an all.’
Parochial duties were necessarily reduced to a minimum, and Desmonde, with time on his hands, was drawn even more frequently to Vernon, to the tennis court. He had become fond of the game, and with his keen eye and swift reactions had surprised Claire on his latest visit by winning in three straight sets. Far from annoying Claire this had delighted her. Always gay, full of fun and in her own phrase ‘ready for anything’, she had proved herself an amusing, uninhibited, and carefree companion. Now they shared the pavilion together as a living-room in which towels, clothes, slippers, bath robes and the rest were scattered and littered around.
‘Isn’t this fun?’ Claire would exclaim, coming out of the shower, loosely robed. ‘ I’m glad I got kicked out of Chateau-le-Roc. First of all because I hated the bloody place, and secondly because now I’ve got you.’
And she began to sing: ‘Falling in love is wonderful …’
‘Enough, little birdie, you’re off-key. This is how it goes.’
And he sang it through for her.
This was the good summer which occasionally, though rarely, steeps the south-west of Ireland in benign and constant sunshine. Desmonde was now deeply tanned and he had put on muscle, so that the Canon, scanning him approvingly, had exclaimed:
‘You’re lookin’ great, Desmonde, and more of a man.’
This afternoon, striding down towards the pavilion, to change before Claire should appear, Desmonde did indeed feel unusually fit, carefree and cheerful, a euphoria that owed much to the prospects of this lovely afternoon, and the pleasure of being with his carefree opponent who was, in fact, on the spot when he leaped up the steps of the veranda.
‘Out, birdie, out,’ he cried. ‘I’m going to strip.’
‘And what difference does that make? I’m putting a new lace in my shoe. And aren’t we the best of intimate pals?’
‘Turn your back, then.’
‘What fore? Are ye like Nora Macarty on her weddin’ night?’ And without moving she began to sing.
‘Little Nora Macarty the knot was goin’ to tie,
She washed all her trousseau and hung it up to dry,
Then up came a goat and he saw the bits of white,
He chewed up all her fal-de-rals, and on her weddin’
night,
Oh, turn out the light quick, poor Nora cried to Pat,
For though I am your bride, sure, I’m not worth
lookin’ at,
I had two of everything I told you when I wrote,
But now I’ve got one o’ nothing, all through Paddy
McGinty’s goat.’
Claire burst out laughing: ‘That’s a great song, Des, you should hear the two Bobs at it. So let’s see you with one of nothing.’
Desmonde shook his head and began, with as much discretion as possible, to change.
‘And don’t call me Des, Claire. The name is Desmonde, with the final “e”.’
‘Ah, what’s the odds, I’ll soon be calling ye’ darlin’. Here I go again, just once more.’ And she sang: ‘”Let me call you sweet-heart darlin’, I’m in love with you …”’
Out on the court, Desmonde said: ‘ I’m going to knock the stuffing out of you, for that.’
They played, without rest, two hard sets, and, after a short adjournment to the pavilion, a final two, leaving the honours even. As they came off the court shortly after four o’clock, Patrick was waiting on them.
‘Bridget thought you must be tired of that ould lemonade and wonders if ye wouldn’t like to come in the house for your tea.’
Desmonde glanced at Claire, who exclaimed: ‘I think we’d love it, don’t you, Desmonde?’
They went into the pavilion to change, Claire, according to custom, taking the shower first while Desmonde went into the men’s changing-room. He had barely stripped off his singlet when a wild shriek from Claire brought him out again.
‘Oh, Des, quick, quick, look at my eye.’
Standing stark naked, bedewed by the shower, like Aphrodite risen from the foam, she now ran towards him, put her hands on his shoulders and upturned her face.
‘Something in my right eye, a fly perhaps, hurting, hurting. Please look.’
Desmonde inspected the eye, pressing back the lid, but could see no insect of any kind. He did, however, see Claire, her slim beautiful body, tight little pink-tipped breasts and the delicate little tuft guarding the ultimate mystery from which, perhaps, came the strange fragrance that made his head swim. He felt his own body react, violently, hotly, as he stammered: ‘I see nothing … perhaps the spray …’
‘Oh, it was so sharp, and sudden …’ She let her face rest against his. ‘I was frightened. Don’t move, dear, this is helping me.’ Now she was almost in his arms. ‘This is what I was longing for, hoping that you would hold me close, wanting you. You know I’m crazy about you, darling. Hold me this way, often, often …’
When at last Desmonde disengaged himself, his heart was beating fast. He took one last look at her, standing there with arms outstretched, then stumbled into his changing cabinet.
Fifteen minutes later, they were both in the sun room, oddly silent, relieved, almost, when Patrick, who had just brought in a well-stocked tray, seemed to hesitate before leaving the room.
‘Might I take no more nor a minute, sir, to ask you a favour?’
‘Certainly, Patrick.’
‘Well, ’tis like this, your reverence. The A.O.H. will be givin’ their annual concert next month, for charity, ye understand, and being’ one of the officials they’ve asked me to ask you a great favour … if you would consent to appear on the programme, just to sing no more nor a couple of songs, not classical, ye understand, just two o’ the good old Irish ballads.’
‘Go on, Des, say yes,’ Claire urged, as Desmonde hesitated. ‘I’ve promised to do a turn myself.’
‘She has indeed, sir.’
‘Well, I will, then,’ Desmonde said.
‘Oh, thank ye, sir, thank ye, in
deed, the boys will be delighted. Ye’ve made yourself so well liked, so popular, goin’ amongst the people, bein’ one of us, despite your position and education, ’twill fill the house to hear you.’
When Patrick had bowed himself out, Desmonde turned to Claire.
‘Give me my tea, you hidden persuader, and some of that cake before you finish it.’
When the tea and cake had been given and absorbed, Desmonde said, seriously:
‘Claire, dear, we must be careful in future. No more of these sudden sorties from the shower. They are dangerous.’
She did not answer, but smiled, her tight-lipped enigmatic smile, which barely uncovered her little white teeth. When they had finished tea, and thanked Bridget in the kitchen, she said:
‘I’ll walk up the hill with you.’
She took his arm and, in silence, they set off. At the summit of the woodland cutting, in the little grassy glade, he held up his hand.
‘No trespassers, please. This is private property, where I come to meditate.’
‘Will you think of me?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘What a nasty thing to say. You must atone by kissing me.’
He kissed her.
She watched him as, without looking back, he walked down the hill.
Chapter Sixteen
Desmonde was now in better physical condition than ever before, or indeed, than ever he would be again. Unhappily there was a fly in the ointment, possibly of the species that flew out of Claire’s eye. No matter how hard he worked in the parish, winning commendation from the Canon for completing tasks that had long awaited attention, he seemed unable to tire himself out, and often at night he would lie for hours inviting the sleep that did not come.
Mentioning his trouble at supper one evening, the Canon nodded understandingly.
‘I had the same thing myself, when I was a young priest. It’s in the nature of man – repression taking its revenge. You don’t play so much tennis these days?’
‘I was overdoing it, Canon. A priest has no place on the tennis court, every day of the week.’
‘Maybe … maybe,’ the Canon said thoughtfully. ‘Why don’t you take a good hard walk at night before ye turn in? Or a little drop o’ the Dew might send you over.’
‘Thank you, Canon.’ Desmonde smiled constrainedly. ‘I think I’ll try the walk.’
He wondered if his worthy Superior had an intuition of the struggle going on in his mind, of the fight he was waging to keep away from Vernon and from Claire. He did, nevertheless, set out about an hour after supper, striding up the hill and half running down. This, followed by a hot bath, gave him some relief, an exhausted sleep of two or three hours’ duration, before the restless tossing set in again.
Often he thought of the casual manner in which he had treated Madame’s mention of her insomnia. The mild remedy he had suggested, aspirin before retiring, proved useless to him. Were they suffering, she as a woman, he as a man, from the same malady? He did, however, continue with the palliative of the hard nightly walk, setting off with his torch when the darkness was oppressive, meeting the Canon’s anxiously approving glance when he returned. The wise old man knew precisely the cause of Desmonde’s disorder; as a young celibate he had suffered it himself.
One night of unusual humidity, the air warm and still, Desmonde breasted the hill and flung himself down on the grass to rest. He had closed his eyes, instinctively wondering if sleep might come to him. He did not hear the sound of quiet approaching footsteps rustling the fallen leaves. Only when his whispered name, and the sound of hurried breathing, caused him to turn on his side, did he sense that Claire lay beside him. Was it reality or was it a dream? Her arms enfolding him, her voice, breathless from hurry, whispering again: ‘Darling, darling, why didn’t you come to me? I’ve waited, waited, hungry for you. And when I saw your torch tonight I couldn’t wait another sleepless night. Come, darling, come to me, love me.’
He was in her arms now, lost in the blessed relief, the joy of her embrace, their lips together, hands touching, fondling, seeking and finding, finding, with her skilful guidance, the entrance to appeasement and the delirium of undreamed delight.
A long sigh broke from her, she was still, remaining locked in his embrace. Then she whipsered:
‘Darling, wonderful darling, that was the best ever –’ She checked herself. ‘I felt that it was love, true love, I came to you, did you not feel it, how I quivered? I had been longing for you so long.’ Then, after a silence: ‘I must go now, dearest, or they will miss me at the house.’
Another kiss and she had risen, was gone.
Desmonde lay for a moment, as though dazed, his eyes still closed, his being pervaded by a calm satisfaction, as though every nerve in his body were at peace. At last he got to his feet and began to walk downhill.
Alas, the nearer he came to the presbytery, the more a realisation of his predicament dawned upon him. His glow faded, supplanted by a slow fear and chilling remorse, that drove him directly to the church. He entered by the side door and, without turning on the switches, flung himself down upon his knees before the altar.
The side door banged open and, flashing his torch, the Canon came barging into the church. He did not at first discern Desmonde; but finally a beam of light caught up and illuminated the still, kneeling figure of his Curate.
‘So this is where ye’ve been hidin’ yerself. And me lookin’ for ye all over. There was a sick call for ye. The old Duggan man, way down at Ardbeg. I had to do it fer ye. And ye know how I hate drivin’ at night.’
Desmonde remained silent.
‘What’s the matter with ye?’ The Canon angrily drew near. ‘Are ye deaf or dumb.’
Still no answer. The torch flashed into Desmonde’s face. A brief silence. Then:
‘Good God! What’s the matter? Are ye ill? This bloody night walkin’ has exhausted ye.’ –
A tremor passed over the kneeling figure. A hand was raised shielding the death-pale face against the light. The Canon’s voice altered.
‘Here, lad, enough of these midnight vigils. Let me give you my arm. And come away up to my room.’ He helped Desmonde to his feet. ‘Mrs O’Brien is long gone. But I’ll make ye a good strong cup o’coffee. I’m needin’ one for my own self onyway.’
So presently Desmonde was in the Canon’s warm room, seated in the Canon’s deep armchair, eyes down, gulping his coffee with a shaking hand.
‘And now, lad, what’s the matter?’
‘Father, I must confess to you.’
‘Ah?’ The Canon raised a restraining arm as Desmonde attempted to kneel. ‘ Sit where ye are, lad. I’m listening.’
‘Father … I am in love…’
‘Ah! A wumman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there’s naething so wrong with that, so long as ye’ve come out with it to me. Wha is’t? That little bitch, Claire?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘I’d sworn it. There’s nae good in that little bitch. She would make love to a lamp post.’
‘No, Father. No … no … no. She is a sweet, innocent little thing.’
‘Indeed, now. Well, lad, you’ll put that same sweet and innocent little thing right out of your sweet innocent stupid head.’
A silence. In a voice that trembled:
‘I cannot, Father. We … we have already consummated our love.’
‘Consummated … your love. What in the name of God do you mean?’
‘Tonight, as you are aware, I went walking … in Kiloan Wood … couldn’t sleep … deeply troubled … by chance we met …’
‘You met.’
‘We tried to resist, Father. It was impossible. We … we loved each other.’
A shocked look came over the Canon’s ruddy face. Slowly he said:
‘You mean you had her?’ Then, peering into Desmonde’s half lowered eyes, ear cupped for the faint answer.
‘We loved.’
‘A physical union? Oh, God Almighty. H
oly Mary and all the Saints. What a bloody to-do! You went fucking in the dark in Kiloan Woods, come back half dead and call it love.’ The Canon’s voice rose to a shout. ‘I see it all now. And ye come back to be petted and gi’en coffee. Go to your room, you dirty little brute, but first take a bath. Ye’ll get no absolution from me yet. But what’s to do in the parish …’ He threw up his hands. ‘If this gets abroad ’twill mak’ all the devils in hell dance the fandango!’
Chapter Seventeen
Physically and emotionally exhausted, Desmonde slept as one dead until the persistent whirr of his alarm clock, set for six o’clock, awakened him to the realisation of his position. For some moments he lay motionless, then raised himself on one elbow. He had the seven a.m. morning week-day Mass. He must get up. But before he could stir, there came a knock at his door which opened to reveal the Canon, fully dressed.
‘Good morning, lad. How do you feel?’
The sympathy, the humanity in the Canon’s voice startled Desmonde, who stammered an answer.
‘Well, well, now, that’s good news. Though you do still look a bit white about the gills. So there’s no need to hurry. I’ll take the seven o’clock for ye. I’ve asked Mrs O’Brien to give ye a right good breakfast, since you missed your dinner last night. Over that sick, call.’ The emphasis on these last two words was stony. ‘And if you’ll step down to the church around eight, I’ll be in the sacristy.’
A nod, what might have passed as a smile, and the door closed quietly.
Desmonde got out of bed, knelt, according to his custom, to pray, then shaved, washed and dressed. His appearance in the small square mirror above his washstand was disheartening, but he went fairly steadily along the passage to the dining-room where, beyond the hatch that opened to the kitchen, Mrs O’Brien greeted him.
‘Good morning to you, Father. You must be starved. And out so late too, at poor old Mr Duggan. I’ll have your breakfast through to you in a minute.’