The two men were as different in appearance as they were in religion. The Catholic was short and round. The Protestant was tall and very thin, as if he didn’t have enough to eat. Father O’Donovan Brady was ministered to by his striking twenty-three-year-old housekeeper. The Reverend Cooper Walker was ministered to by Sarah, his wife of fifteen years, who might not have had the bloom of youth of the housekeeper but was still a handsome woman, regularly admired by other clergy at diocesan conferences. The Catholic had no children. The Protestant had three, two boys and a girl, who were only a trouble to him when he contemplated the expense of educating them and bringing them out into society. Father Brady had never left Ireland, indeed he had only once visited the north where his visit accidentally coincided with the parades of Orangemen on 12 July, where hatred of Catholics was a central feature of the proceedings, and left him determined never to return to such a place again. The Reverend Cooper Walker had been attached to a parish in Oxford for a time – he had been a noted theologian in his youth, and his professors had tried with all their might to persuade him into an academic career, but Cooper Walker turned them down, saying his version of God called him to the service of real people in what he naively called the real world rather than that of the saints and sinners of the second and third centuries AD. Among the rich of North Oxford and the poor of Jericho the Reverend Cooper Walker had seen the pain caused by unhappy marriages, the damage that could be done by a love that went wrong or alighted in the wrong place. Father O’Donovan Brady’s God resembled Moses on top of the mountain, tablets in hand, entrusted by a fierce and unforgiving God with the salvation of his people, however harsh the punishment. The Reverend Cooper Walker’s God resembled Christ feeding the five thousand and saying blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.
The two men had never met before. Father Brady struck the Reverend Cooper Walker as rather coarse, with a crude but effective faith. The Reverend Cooper Walker struck Father O’Donovan Brady as a Protestant intellectual – both words of extreme condemnation in his book and, taken together, virtually the same as heretical – who would be prepared to argue for tolerance rather than rigour, for forgiveness rather than punishment, for turning the other cheek rather than inflicting the wrath of a jealous God. The Catholic Church in Ireland, Father Brady felt, would never have reached the position of authority and power it held today if it had had truck with doubt or uncertainty.
In spite of their differences the meeting went well, the two men of God circling each other like boxers at the start of a fight, each reluctant to enter into what might be dangerous territory. Sarah Cooper Walker fed them with tea and some of her special scones that always did well at church fetes and harvest festivals. Surprisingly quickly, they agreed on a plan of campaign to be put into action the following Sunday. Their methods might be different, but the message would be the same. As Father Brady walked back to his house, past the queue at Mulcahy and Sons, Grocery and Bar, and the drinkers already assembling outside MacSwiggin’s, he felt he had scored a notable victory. He had brought the Protestants, even if only for one occasion, into the orbit of the true faith. The Reverend Cooper Walker had too subtle a mind to think in terms of victory or defeat. He thought of the words of the Bible and felt he had little choice.
Mass in the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows in Butler’s Cross began at eleven o’clock. Father O’Donovan Brady had processed up the nave and genuflected. The Father kissed the altar and the congregation rose.
‘In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.’ Father Brady felt oddly nervous as he began his service.
‘Amen’ said his congregation.
‘Gratia Domini nostri Iesu Christi et caritas Dei, et communicatio Sancti Spiritus sit cum omnibus vobis. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.’
‘Et cum spiritu tuo, and also with you,’ came the response.
There was always a large congregation at Mass at eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings. At the front Pronsias Mulcahy sat in his pew with his wife at his side. She was a formidable woman in her late forties, Mrs Mulcahy, dressed as ever on Sundays in a dark blue suit that had once been fashionable for a slightly younger clientele. Sylvia Butler and Young James had spotted her once months before wearing this same suit on her way to the service. Sylvia had nudged James in the ribs and pointed to the grocer’s wife. ‘Would you say that was mutton dressed as lamb, James?’ Young James carried out a lightning inspection. ‘No, I would not,’ he had replied quickly, ‘I should say that was mutton dressed as mutton.’
Behind the Mulcahys was a platoon of Delaneys, the solicitors, and the Delaney wives, all growing over time to look remarkably like their husbands. For the only time in the week MacSwiggin’s Hotel and Bar was closed while the owner and his wife heard the word of the Lord. O’Riordan the bookmaker and his wife were there in their Sunday best, bets forbidden on the Sabbath. The agricultural machinery man Horkan was there in a new suit that was slightly too large for him, and his wife in a spectacular hat. Behind the Catholic aristocracy was a great throng of servants from Butler’s Court, farmers, blacksmiths, farriers, stable hands, horse dealers and small tenant farmers, most of them working land that belonged to Richard Butler in the Big House. All the children had been sent to the Church Hall for instruction in Catechism and Commandments.
‘There is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified
Who died to save us all.’
The Protestant congregation in the Church of St Michael and All Angels were singing a hymn written by one of their very own. The green hill far away was the work of a Mrs Frances Alexander whose husband went on to become Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of all Ireland. The few, the very few in the church that day gave it their best.
‘There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin,
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven and let us in.’
The church had been built in times when the Protestant population of Butler’s Cross was much greater. If Father Brady had been faced with so few worshippers in Our Lady of Sorrows he would have thought that a catastrophe must have struck, a second famine come to decimate his flock. Richard Butler was there, of course, Sylvia by his side. Several other members of his family and friends come to visit managed to fill up a couple of pews. Johnpeter Kilross was there, feeling rather hung over, and Alice Bracken in a summer dress. There were some more Protestants from outlying districts who travelled miles to come and show the flag at Sunday Matins. Behind them stretched row after row of empty pews, dust gathering on the wood, the prayer books unopened, the hymn books abandoned.
‘O dearly dearly has he loved,
And we must love him too,
And trust in his redeeming blood
And try his works to do.’
At the back of the Catholic church the young men were trying to attract the attention of the girls who looked so unattainable in their Sunday best. Father Brady moved on.
‘Kyrie eleison,’ he intoned, Lord have mercy.
‘Kyrie eleison,’ replied the congregation.
‘Christe eleison,’ continued the Father, Christ have mercy.
‘Christe eleison,’ came the response.
‘Kyrie eleison,’ boomed Father Brady.
‘Kyrie eleison,’ said his parishioners.
The Reverend Cooper Walker had resolved to read the first lesson himself. He had changed the reading, which was meant to come from the Book of Isaiah, to one from the Book of Samuel.
‘Second Book of Samuel, Chapter Eleven,’ he began. The lectern was magnificent with a great gold eagle on the top. ‘“And it came to pass in an eveningtide, that David arose from his bed and walked upon the roof of the king’s house: and from the roof he saw a woman washing herself; and the woman was very beautiful to look upon.
/> ‘“And David sent and inquired after this woman. And one said, Is not this Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?
‘“And David sent messengers, and took her; and she came in unto him and he lay with her”.’ The Reverend Cooper Walker looked directly at Johnpeter Kilross for a fraction of a second. The young man’s face had turned bright red. The vicar carried on. ‘“And she returned to her house. And the woman conceived and sent and told David, I am with child.”’
Maybe it was the colour of Kilross’s face or Alice Bracken hiding her head in her hands, but a current of excitement was running through the tiny congregation now. What was going on? Did the vicar know something they didn’t? The Reverend Cooper Walker carried on, outlining the device used by David to have Uriah the Hittite killed in battle so Bathsheba might become his wife. The vicar paused before the final words of the chapter: ‘“But the thing that David had done displeased the Lord.”’
At twenty minutes past eleven Father O’Donovan Brady climbed the steps to his pulpit. He stared at the young people whispering to each other at the back of the church. He paused until there was complete silence in the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows.
‘The Devil is abroad in Butler’s Cross,’ he thundered to his congregation. ‘On our peaceful streets, in our community of Christian souls, Satan is doing his work. Let me remind you of the seventh of God’s commandments, handed down to Moses on the mountain for the guidance and instruction of his people.’ Father Brady paused again. ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ He repeated it in case some of his flock had not heard, this time with a heavy emphasis on ‘not’. ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery. Do not get me wrong, my friends.’ The priest had noticed some members of his congregation looking decidedly sheepish and wondered if Cathal Rafferty might not have been better employed on his snooping missions closer to home. Still, there could always be other fishing expeditions later on. Sin was sin wherever it was to be found. ‘These are not members of our congregation here, devout Catholic souls, who are breaking the laws of God. It is two Protestants who are staining the pure air of Butler’s Cross. Even Protestants claim to believe in the Ten Commandments. They too subscribe to Thou shalt not commit adultery. But what do we find? We find two of their number doing the Devil’s work in broad daylight.’
At twenty-two minutes past eleven the Reverend Cooper Walker climbed into his pulpit. This was going to be one of the most difficult sermons he had preached in his entire ministry.
‘In the first lesson this morning,’ he began, ‘we heard the story of David and his lust for Bathsheba. We also heard at the end how God was displeased by what David had done. For he had broken not one, but two, of God’s commandments. Thou shalt not kill, by his plotting to have Uriah the Hittite, Bathsheba’s husband, killed in battle. And he had broken the Seventh Commandment, Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ The vicar paused and looked round his little band of worshippers. Most of them looked bemused. But not all of them.
‘I have not come here this morning to name names,’ the vicar went on. ‘I do not think that would be helpful. But I ask each and every one of you here this morning to look into your hearts and ask yourselves if you have broken the Seventh Commandment. It should not be a difficult question to answer.’
‘Johnpeter Kilross! Alice Bracken! These are the sinners who reside in Butler’s Court and who have broken God’s holy law and commandments!’ Father O’Donovan Brady was in full flow, thumping the side of his pulpit. ‘These are the people, one a single man, the other a married woman with an absent husband, who have committed adultery in a cottage on the Butler estate! So great is their contempt for their Saviour, they didn’t even close the curtains properly! These are the wretches who have brought disgrace unto themselves and despair into their families! I bring you this message this morning. If you work in Butler’s Court, think before you serve them their food. Think before you are asked to wash their garments, befouled and besmirched no doubt with the sins they have committed. If you are asked to clean their quarters think rather if they would not be better left in the squalor they deserve. If you are a shopkeeper in the town think before serving them any sustenance that might give them strength to continue their sordid debauchery. Their behaviour might be fitting in the souks of Cairo or the brothels of Bangkok: it is not fitting here, in St Patrick’s island.’ Father O’Donovan Brady stopped briefly. ‘This is the message of God’s teaching. Abide by God’s commandments. Keep God’s word. Let not sin intrude into innocent lives. Let us work together to banish Satan from our midst for ever. In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti, Amen.’
‘We are few, here in this land, we who belong to the Church of Ireland,’ the vicar went on. ‘I would not say a happy few, not today, nor would I refer to us this morning as a band of brothers. But the fact that we are few, our numbers small, means that our responsibilities are great. We must be seen to lead virtuous lives. Our Catholic colleagues may think we are in the wrong Church but they must not think we are not decent Christian souls, intent on leading as good a life as we can in this world in the hope of finding salvation in the next. When people in our faith commit adultery, they not only demean themselves, they demean all of us. I would ask you to pray for the sinners, pray that they may sin no more and be brought back into the light of God’s gracious mercy and forgiveness. If you have sinned, I would ask you to repent. Above all I would ask you to be mindful of Christ’s words to the woman taken in adultery, “go thou and sin no more.”’
It was not long before the full scale of the disaster hit Butler’s Court. The servants, with their normal invisible sources of information, learnt very quickly what had happened in the Protestant church. The steward, acting as spokesman for the footmen and the parlour maids and the kitchen staff, informed Richard Butler of the sermon of Father O’Donovan Brady. The steward felt it was only fair. Richard Butler turned pale but merely thanked the man for his news. The soup that lunchtime came in a silver tureen and was ladled into the Spode bowls by Richard and passed down to the guests. Butler himself carved the meat with a great German carving knife and handed it round. Disaster struck with the vegetables. These were being served from a large silver salver by a pretty parlour maid of about twenty years who looked very correct in her smart black and white uniform. When she reached Johnpeter Kilross she simply walked straight past him as if he wasn’t there. The same fate, accompanied by a slight toss of the head, awaited Alice Bracken. Everybody else was served in the normal way. The girl took the empty salver back to the kitchens. There was complete silence in the dining room. The blank spaces on the walls where the paintings had been stared down at them. Alice Bracken burst into tears and fled the room. Johnpeter Kilross followed her a moment later. Richard Butler stared helplessly at his wife. The rest of the meal was taken in complete silence. The boycott, or a form of boycott, had come to add to the woes of Butler’s Court.
Richard Butler and his wife held a crisis meeting in his study after lunch. ‘Did you know this was going on?’ he asked her.
‘Certainly not. Do you know precisely what was going on?’
Richard Butler made a disagreeable face. ‘From what I was told just before lunch, Father O’Donovan Brady named Kilross and the Bracken female as having carried on in broad daylight in the Head Gardener’s Cottage. He told his flock, if they worked here, that is, to think before they served their food or washed their clothes, that sort of thing.’
‘My God, Richard, this is terrible! So soon after the paintings and everything. What are we going to do?’
‘I don’t think we have any choice,’ said Butler. ‘They’ll have to go away. They’ll have to go almost at once before things get out of hand.’
‘We can’t do that. They may have misbehaved, those two, but they’re our kith and kin. We can’t let them down. What will people say? That Father O’Donovan Brady, that horrible little man, preaches a sermon at half past eleven and the Protestants cave in first thing in the afternoon? You can’t take a high and mighty lin
e with the blackmailers, Richard, and then betray your own after they miss out on the carrots and the cauliflower!’
‘Ah, but there’s a difference,’ said her husband. ‘We’re in the right over the paintings. We’re in the wrong, very much in the wrong, about the adultery. Would you have the locals say our house is a refuge for adulterers, that the people who break God’s commandments can find sanctuary at my house? It won’t do. My mind is made up, Sylvia. They’ve got to go. You might tell them to pack their bags right away. I wish Powerscourt was here. He’d have something sensible to suggest. I’m going to speak to the vicar. Maybe he’ll have some thoughts about where they could go. I don’t think anywhere in the south of Ireland is going to be safe for them. The word will shoot round the Catholic grapevine at lightning speed.’
Five days after his escape from his captors on the Maum road Lord Francis Powerscourt was sitting in the reception area of Messrs Browne and Sons, Land Agents and Valuers, of Eyre Square in the heart of Galway.
The dinner at the Leenane Hotel had been a riotous affair, graced with lobsters and champagne. The Major had indeed attempted to sing a song, ‘The Ash Grove’, deemed too English by local taste and drowned out by Dennis Ormonde and Johnny Fitzgerald belting out ‘The West’s Awake’ and ‘The Wearing of the Green’. The dining room, the landlord observed to his wife, was little better this evening than the public bar on a Saturday night. Ormonde had brought some correspondence for Powerscourt, the letter from Inspector Harkness that had arrived at Ormonde House just ten minutes after he left in search of the missing women. It was cryptic. ‘It is as you thought. Here are the dates and the figures for the person you mentioned. H.’ And there was a note from the Archbishop’s Chaplain reminding Powerscourt that the Archbishop of Tuam was anxious to see him before he left Ireland. An appointment had been fixed for later that day. Johnny Fitzgerald had been dispatched on a fishing expedition to locate and investigate Pronsias Mulcahy’s brother, Declan Mulcahy, believed to be a solicitor somewhere in the west of Ireland.
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