The priest heard the door close and knew that Eveline stood behind him. “My father,” she said after a time.
His face, which had lifted, lowered. “A great man.”
“He was that.” A pier glass gave gaze of her profile. I am my father’s seed.
“Not a day but he worked in Ireland’s cause.”
“He lived for his country.”
“He was a great man and a good. Any number of windows I have seen, painted windows in chapels wheresoever in the province, with his name in dedication.”
Yes, she idly thought, her father had been scrupulous in providing for the Church. The rate of one glass window per bastard born, if she did not mistake.
The priest leant forward now. “Is it true, Madame MacMurrough, he had the ear of the Fenians?”
“He was always very close on that subject, Father. But it was his strong conviction that England never moved but she was pushed.”
“A man of uplifting oratory and acuity of vision. Some say, and I have said it myself, he died for Ireland.”
“So soon he left us.”
“Happy the man who dies for his country.”
“We will not see his like again.”
“Do not say so!” Cup banged on saucer. “Madame, forgive me, but such thoughts have too long been the bane of our land!”
She was startled by the priest’s ardor and could not immediately recall which commonplace had provoked it. She saw he had spilt tea on his trouser leg. “I’m afraid we have no cake, Father O’Toiler, but the child evidently has brought biscuits. May I tempt you? Or is it too soon before lunch?”
“A biscuit would be grand.”
“They are Irish-manufactured.”
“Proven by their taste.”
She smiled acknowledgment. The smile moued on her face while the priest discoursed, detailing apparently the clubs and classes he intended for the parish and the moral tone that should prevail. She eyed her tea—the girl had brought Indian not China—with a wintry discontent, though it was the service which the more displeased. Accursed child had laid out the Minton. Minton for a bishop at the very least, any old Davenport for a curate.
At one point the priest made to fetch another biscuit, and she quickly brought the plate to him lest he should feel free to roam her drawing-room. She wondered what childhood illness had rendered his face so blemished, for it was pocked and pitted miraculously. What in France they would call un joli laid, whose ugliness presented the chief attraction. This dash of a Roman collar—how it gleamed against the black, the white gloss of Maynooth. How it checked the ride of the apple in the throat. She was minded of those boys, that circle of young manhood—cat’s-paws, panderers, fawners, wheedlers, henchmen, conjuror’s assistants—that had orbited, till his dying end, her father’s star. Some had thought to fawn to her, some to wheedle past her. Some, God help us, had thought to make love to her. As though she, her father’s seed, should forsake his side for the side of a gangling weed.
The drawing-room gave out to the garden room which in turn gave out to the lawns, where sycamores waved in the sea-breeze. The may was waving, the bluebells hazed, and she wondered when the strawberries would come.
“However, Madame MacMurrough, intentions are all very well, but without organization, I hear you say, how far will our intentions advance?”
Not for the first time she wondered what she wanted with this priest. Of course, it was her name that he was after, that illustrious and priceless name, on the headed notepaper of one more committee, her gloved hand opening yet another bazaar. How tedious it all could be. One yearned for the grinding of pikes on a stone, but the reality for a woman was tea parties, muffin fights, hearts sunk in raising lucre.
She glanced upon his poking face, the spectacles that slid on his glistening nose. Every morning he brings down God to the altar. God has called him to do this. It was extraordinary and in some way very humbling. She leant forward and said, “Father, what may I do to help?”
“Help, Madame MacMurrough? Your very presence in the parish is an inspiration. Your name alone is worth its weight in gold.”
Oh lah, here come the bazaars. She felt her pendant with its trapped and prehistoric fly. And I have dressed the part. She decided she would motor in the afternoon. And I shall wear green tweed, the Redfern probably, and my father’s guns on the seat beside as over the hills I go. My name is MacMurrough. My father had the ear of the Fenians. I too hear the ceaseless cries.
She rose from her chair that the priest should rise and interrupt his homily. Adjusting a piece on the étagère, she said, “Tell me, Father, did the kilts arrive? A band, I believe. Young men of the parish.”
“They arrived in perfect order. And it is in part my excuse for imposing upon you this morning, to express the gratitude of the parish for your kind benevolence. Madame MacMurrough,” he said, standing and taking off his spectacles, “go raibh maith agat.”
She was sure she had never known so obliging a tongue.
The priest returned his spectacles, resat, spilling the merest skim of tea. “Already the boys are wearing them. I fear, however, the man in charge is not of our timber. A weak character of intemperate habit, unsuited to the charge of boys.”
“A Presentation brother, I believe.”
“There is the smell of drink off him. Worse even, he is Englified beyond redemption. All I had requested was a simple Irish tune. He had them play the Saxon anthem.”
“Oh lah,” said Eveline.
“Alas, it is the nature of these Presentationers. What are they but trumped-up Christian Brothers? The Christian Brothers have the virtue at least of knowing their place in a parish. But these shoneen men of Presentation are Englified to the core, if such could be said to have a core. Rugby they play and cricket in season: a college for Castle Catholics is all it is. And this flute band he gives. What does he teach only bits out of old operas, The Magic Flute even, that monstrous farrago of masonic falsehood.”
“Oh lah,” she repeated, but she was thinking of her nephew. There were strings connecting that troublesome boy with the instrument in question. Had he not played flute as a child? She recalled a silver article that came with his luggage from England.
“However, the bird that can sing but won’t must be made sing.” The curate scoured his hands. With devious jerks of his head he proceeded. “There is a Gaelic-speaking lad in the parish. A poor boy who came looking to me for an introduction for work. Well, I introduced him to the band for good measure. In consequence, that band is the legitimate concern of the parish clergy. We have, so to speak, our ticket of entry.”
“Bravo, Father.”
“It will be no simple contrivance to prise the brother away. They can be stubborn, these modern orders. In the meantime, we must be upon the look-out for his replacement. He need not be any tremendous musician, provided only he be amenable to our aims.”
“I wonder,” Eveline began, but she trailed off, seeking in her mind the passages her wonder should take her. This coincidence of the flute and her nephew: mightn’t two birds be made sing with the one stone? If she might show her nephew to public advantage. A garden party perhaps. Select gathering of advanced opinion. The local youth he leads in song. This is my nephew, whom the English have traduced. With prudent handling, he might, God help us, be regarded a catch.
It did not present a very likely prospect. Troublesome boy, where was he, anyhow? Bathing at the Forty Foot, if she was not deceived.
The priest cocked a kindly query. “Madame?”
“I was wondering where we should find such a person.”
“We must be vigilant. I am thinking also of a military man who might drill the boys in marching. There is nothing to stir the patriotic heart as young men who march in step.”
A military man, a type of sergeant-major or chef de fanfare. No, she was the commandant, marching at the head of her heroes. “Let vigilance be our watch-word.”
“It is not that the parish lacks spirit, Madame Ma
cMurrough. In every street, the deceptions of our oppressors are confronted, defied, deposed. It is a tremendous sight to see.”
“In Glasthule?”
“I refer to the torn recruitment posters. But these hidden hands are profitless without we make a public display. Particularly now that, thanks to your good self, the boys have kilts to parade in. And in regard to those self-same vestments, if I might once more impose”—unhooking his spectacles and obtruding them in the air so that four eyes now poked at her, and again rising from his seat—“Go raibh maith agat.” Spectacled, sinking once more, he added, “If there is any way, any thing at all you can think of—”
“Well, perhaps—”
“Any little thing whatever we can do to show our appreciation—”
“I had thought of a little . . . a fête champêtre.”
“I believe I don’t know—”
“In the garden here. A party.”
“Party, Madame?”
A darker ardor charged his face and briefly she heard his shuffling, coughing congregation. Nothing would do but she must utter the dread word. “Bazaar.”
“I don’t see.”
“For the raising of subscriptions. The Irish classes you mentioned, the hockey clubs. The band would provide a musical interlude.”
“A feis!” exclaimed the priest. “I see it now. Music from the band, Irish singing, poetry even, the local schoolchildren will playact scenes from our heroic past. A most marvellous suggestion. And you would suffer your home to be prevailed upon for this exhibition?”
She had countenanced a band of uniformed boys, not national schoolchildren trampling her lawns. She saw herself presiding over the usual banquet of suburbandom. Madame MacMurrough will now present the prizes . . . “I should be honored.”
“While we have your good self to the fore, good lady, your father has not entirely left us.”
She believed she’d had her fill of this priest for the present. She pulled the hearth bell. “Thank you, Father, it has been a most encouraging interview.”
“No no, Madame, thank you, thank you. Go raibh maith agat go leoir.”
“Galore,” she repeated, pouncing on recognized syllables. “Galore to you too, Father O’Toiler. Isn’t it glorious to be speaking the old tongue together?”
He was still wittering when the child came to show him out. “The Glasthule Feis, yes indeed. I don’t know how I can thank you sufficiently. A display of Gaelic crafts we could have. Athletics. Did you know the long jump and the triple jump were Irish creations? Is there space I wonder for a hurling contest? A committee. We must form a committee of interested persons. You will of course grace us at the chair?”
“Your hat, Father.”
“Go raibh maith agat, Madame.”
She waited till she heard the door close, then she dropped into a cushioned chair.
Nancy stopped in the hall and said, “Dinner is waiting, mam.”
“Lunch.”
“Yes, mam.”
“Have you seen my nephew?”
“Wasn’t he out in the garden a moment back?”
“Call him for me. And tell Cook that lunch is to be delayed.”
“But isn’t dinner waiting, mam?”
“Lunch.”
“Yes, mam.”
“Just tell Cook I said so. And call my nephew.”
“Yes, mam.”
“Do it, child.”
Minutes later she heard his step on the gravel and the garden doors opened in the garden room. Fresh air preceded him as he came up behind and she felt his breath then his kiss on her temple. “Aunt Eva,” he said in disapproving tone.
“Did the child complain to you?”
“I understand Cook is throwing pans at the kitchen wall.”
“Why are people so trying?”
He was at the side table. She heard the comforting chink of glass, but still she kept her eyes closed.
“It’s their Sunday out. Of course they want lunch to be done with.”
“And my head aches so.” “Sherry.”
She opened her eyes to receive the glass in her hand. He stood before her, young, relaxed, proficient. Tennisy clothes hung casually from him. Mustache thin as ink. Bored, she thought.
“Did the priest bring on your migraine?”
“You saw him, then?”
“Just in time. I was returning after my bathe, but I scarpered down the garden. Really, Aunt Eva, the parish clergy. Could you not find a Jesuit to play with? He looked an ugly stick.”
“You oughtn’t to talk that way of a priest.”
“I’m sure his soul is very handsome.”
Just as your soul, my handsome young nephew, is damned. “Are you going to smoke?”
He turned as the match struck. “Do you object?”
“No. But I should like to be asked.”
“May I?”
Her fingers lifted in acquiescence. Smoke curled from his mouth. She wondered as she watched just how indifferent he could be. “Am I too strict with you?” she asked.
“On the contrary, dear Aunt. You are the soul of compassion. My presence here confirms it.”
Not entirely indifferent. He does so preen himself upon his disgrace.
Through the garden doors she heard a singing and she turned to see the new washerwoman make her way down the lawn. She had a fantastical and placid motion, carrying her basket on top of her head. Another basket looped through her arm. She remembered the woman’s face from her interview that was proud and undaunted. An infant slumbered inside her shawl. Its tiny hand had slipped out. It had looked so delicate, like china against the rough stuff cloth, that Eveline had bade the bootman fetch milk. But the woman refused, saying, “The blessing of God on you, mam, but I’m looking to keep her at nurse a while longer.” It was that had decided her to employ the woman. Though she had references too from Mrs. King whose husband worked at the Castle and from some dissenting clergyman with lilac notepaper.
How proud she walked and softly sang. The air carried over the listening lawns. Beyond the lawns the sea glistened and her song had the breezy yawn of the sea as softly she sang to her slumbering child and her humble burden she carried.
“She takes away the stains of the world,” she heard her nephew say. And when the washerwoman stumbled, Eveline felt a tiny start inside. A start, as though she would reach out herself to help the woman.
At that moment she knew where she would motor in the afternoon. She would take the mountain road to High Kinsella, she would drive through the dark if need be, and she would sit in the room he had slept in there, when convalescent he came and she had nursed him, Casement. And she would pray for his return, for his soon and safe and conquering return, to the Ireland that he loved. And if God willed it, and God send He did, to her.
She turned from the garden doors. Curtly she said, “I shall be away this afternoon. I may well be away the night. Shall you dine out or should I ask Cook to leave a cold plate?”
“May I ask where you’re going?”
“You might, if you chose to be impertinent. However, there is no mystery. High Kinsella,” she said.
He gave the appearance of a smile. “Emeralds in the country, my gracious. And will he be collecting you?”
His jaded games. “As always, dear boy, I shall motor myself.”
“You know, Aunt Eva, you’ll bring scandal on our name if you insist on tooling up and down the lanes. A lady motorist could be thought dashing to the point of fast. Why don’t you advertise for a chauffeur-mechanic?”
Her charming, handsome, damned nephew. For all his sins, a MacMurrough. She rose to ready for lunch. “Shall you change? Or do you intend dining dirty?”
“To please you I shall change.”
“It would please me.”
“If only for lunch.” The line of his mustache was unmoved by the smirk.
At the door, she asked, “Usen’t you to play a musical instrument?”
“Why do you ask?”
�
��Which was it?”
“Flute.”
His humorless eyes. It was pitiful to see the affliction behind. There were times he was not handsome at all, her nephew—he but wore that mask. And now when she looked, he was not lean and agile as a glance told, but thin, gruelled, his clothes another’s. Yes, there was a deal of work to be done with her nephew.
Her gaze wandered over the portrait of her father, wandered back to his face. Chauffeur-mechanic indeed. “As for scandal,” she said, “I believe you have the edge on all of us there.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Papa?���
“Are you holding tight there?”
“There’s been something on my mind.”
“There always is when you calls me papa.” Mr. Mack took a grip of the shelf and looked down at his son’s upward face. Sallow skin on him. One or two spots coming. Trouble in his eyes. Oh begod, Gordie gone now, oughtn’t I—kipping on his own now, oughtn’t I—would they not learn him against that at the college? “Don’t do it,” he let out.
“Do what?”
“Say a prayer instead. It does go away, the urge will.” His son was mouthing words so he quickly added, “Say no more about it now.” He thought a moment. “Sleep with your hands like so.” He crossed his breast with his arms and the steps tilted under him. “Didn’t I tell you to hold tight?” He regained his balance. “Let the word Jesus be the last on your lips. Or Mary. A prayer to the Blessed Virgin would often be most affectatious. We’ll say no more now. Save it’ll leave you insane in the end.”
“What will leave me insane?”
He scratched his head, then felt his mustache. The boy’s eyes, having deeply blinked, were doubly troubled. “How old is this you are?”
“I’m turned sixteen.”
A cheek dimpled in calculation. “Show me up them candles like a good boy. I was older than you at your age.”
“Da, it’s about socialism.”
At Swim, Two Boys Page 11
