' Hello! Hi-lee, Ho-la, Hup-la!' he shouted through the letter box.
Upstairs, a window flew up like a gun port, and a pig-of-a-face stuck itself out.
'What do you want, Milligan?' said the pig-of-a-face. Milligan doffed his cap.
'Ah, Missis O'Toole, you're looking more lovely dan ever. Is there any chance of a cool libation for a tirsty traveller ?'
' Piss off!' said the lovely Mrs O'Toole.
'Oh what a witty tongue you have today,' said Milligan, gallant in defeat. Well, he thought, you can fool some of the people all the time and all the people some of the time, which is just long enough to be President of the United States, and on that useless profundity, Milligan himself pedalled on, himself, himself.
' Caw!' said a crow.
'Balls!'said Milligan.
Father Patrick Rudden paused as he trod the gravel path of the church drive. He ran his 'kerchief round the inside of his holy clerical collar. Then he walked slowly to the grave of the late Miss Griselda Strains and pontifically lowered his ecclesiastical rump on to the worn slab, muttering a silent apology to the departed lady, but reflecting, it wouldn't be the first time she'd had a man on top of her, least of all one who apologized as he did. He was a tall handsome man touching fifty, but didn't appear to be speeding. His stiff white hair was yellowed with frequent applications of anointment oil. The width of neck and shoulder suggested a rugby player, the broken nose confirmed it. Which shows how wrong you can be as he never played the game in his life. The clock in the church tower said 4.32, as it had done for three hundred years. It was right once a day and that was better than no clock at all. How old the church was no-one knew. It was, like Mary Brannigan's black baby, a mystery. Written records went back to 1530. The only real clue was the discovery of a dead skeleton under the ante-chapel. Archaeologists from Dublin had got wind of it and come racing up in a lorry filled with little digging men, instruments and sandwiches.
'It's the bones of an Ionian monk,' said one grey professor. For weeks they took photos of the dear monk. They measured his skull, his shins, his dear elbows; they took scrapings from his pelvis, they took a plaster cast of the dear fellow's teeth, they dusted him with resin and preserving powders and finally the professors had all agreed, the Monk was one thousand five hundred years old. 'Which accounts for him being dead,' said the priest, and that was that.
Money! That was the trouble. Money! The parish was spiritually solvent but financially bankrupt. Money! The Lord will provide, but to date he was behind with his payments. Money!
Father Rudden had tried everything to raise funds, he even went to the bank. 'Don't be a fool, Father!' said the manager, 'Put that gun down.' Money! There was the occasion he'd promised to make fire to fall from heaven. The church had been packed. At the psychological moment the priest had mounted the pulpit and called loudly ' I command fire to fall from heaven!' A painful silence followed. The priest seemed uneasy. He repeated his invocation much louder, '1 command fire to fall from heaven!' The sibilant voice of the verger came wafting hysterically from the loft.
'Just a minute, Father, the cat's pissed on the matches!'
It had been a black day for the church. Money! That was the trouble. His own shoes were so worn he knew every pebble in the church drive by touch. He poked a little gold nut of cheap tobacco into his pipe. As he drew smoke he looked at the honeyed stone of St Theresa, the church he had pastored for thirty years. A pair of nesting doves flew from the ivy on the tower. It was pretty quiet around here.
There had been a little excitement during the insurgence; the Sinn Fein had held all their meetings in the bell tower and in consequence were all stone deaf. The priest didn't like bloodshed, after all we only have a limited amount, but what was he to do ?
Freedom! The word had been burning through the land for nearly four hundred years. The Irish had won battles for everyone but themselves; now the fever of liberty was at the high peak of delirium, common men were incensed by injustice; now the talk was over and the guns were speaking. Father Rudden had thrown in his lot with 'the lads' and had harboured gunmen on the run. They had won but alas, even then, Ulster had come out against the union. For months since the armistice, dozens of little semi-important men with theodolites and creased trousers, were running in all directions in a frenzy of mensuration, threats and rock-throwing, all trying to agree the new border.
The sound of a male bicycle frame drew the priest's attention.
There coming up the drive was the worst Catholic since Genghis Khan.
'Ah, top of the morning to yez, Father,' Milligan said dismounting.
'Well, well, Dan Milligan.' There was surprise and pleasure in the priest's voice.' Tell me, Dan, what are you doing so far from your dear bed ?'
'I'm feeling much better, Father.'
'Oh? You been ill then?'
'No, but I'm feeling much better now dan I felt before.'
There was a short pause, then a longer one, but so close were they together, you couldn't tell the difference.
'It's unexpectedly hot fer dis time of the year, Father.'
'Very hot, Milligan. Almost hot enough to burn a man's conscience, eh ?'
'Ha ha, yes, Father,' he laughed weakly, his eyes two revelations of guilt.
'When did you last come to church, Milligan?'
'Oh, er, I forget - but I got it on me Baptismal certificate.'
The priest gave Milligan a long meaning stare which Milligan did not know the meaning of. Then the Milligan, still holding his bike, sat down next to the priest.' By Gor Father, wot you tink of dis weather ?'
'Oh, it's hot all right,' said Father Rudden relighting his pipe.
Producing a small clay decoy pipe, Milligan started to pat his empty pockets.' Here,' said the priest, throwing him his tobacco pouch.
'Oh tank you Father, an unexpected little treat.'
Together the two men sat in silence; sometimes they stood in silence which after all is sitting in silence only higher up. An occasional signal of smoke escaped from the bowl and scurried towards heaven. 'Now Milligan,' the priest eventually said, 'what is the purpose of this visit?' Milligan knew that this was, as the Spaniards say, 'El Momento de la Verdad', mind you, he didn't think it in Spanish, but if he had, that's what it would have looked like.
'Well Father,' he began, puffing to a match, 'well, I - "puff-puff-puff
" -I come to see - "puff-puff" -if dis grass cuttin' - job - " puff-puff' -
is still goin'.'
The inquiry shook the priest into stunned silence. In that brief moment the Milligan leaped on to his bike with a 'Ah well, so the job's gone, good-bye.' The priest recovered quickly, restraining Milligan by the seat of the trousers.
'Oh, steady Father,' gasped Milligan, 'dem's more then me trousers yer clutchin'.'
' Sorry, Milligan,' said the priest, releasing his grip. 'We celibates are inclined to forget them parts.' 'Well you can forget mine fer a start,' thought Milligan. Why in God's name did men have to have such tender genitals. He had asked his grandfather that question. 'Don't worry 'bout yer old genitals lad,' said the old man,' they'll stand up fer themselves.'
What about that terrible, terrible evening so long ago ?
Dan Milligan was seventeen, he had arrived for his first date with Mary Nolan. Her father had ushered him into the parlour with a forked vermin stick. Alone in the room with him was Mary's youngest brother, a little toddler of four. The little fellow carried in his hand such an innocent thing as a clay lion, but this, plus momentum, and brought unexpectedly into violent contact with Milligan's testicles, caused him to writhe and scream with pain; at which moment the radiant Mary chose to enter the room. To be caught clutching himself so was too much for the sensitive Dan.
With only the whites of his eyes showing, he disguised his convulsions as a macabre Highland fling.
Cross-eyed, bent double and screaming 'Och aye!' he danced from the room and she never saw him again. For many years after, young Dan Milligan wor
e an outsized cricketer's protective cup; during the mixed bathing season, many ladies made his acquaintance, only to be disappointed later.
'Yes, there's plenty of work to be done, Dan,' the priest was saying. He led Milligan to the gardener's hut. A small wood plank shed tucked in a cluster of cool elms. ' Michael Collins himself hid in here from the Tans,' said the priest proudly as he opened the door.
' Did he ever cut the grass ?'
' No, but once, when the English was after him he set fire to it.
What a blaze! Twenty courtin' couples nearly burnt to death!
Them's the tools.' The priest pointed to four sentinel scythes standing in the corner like steel flamingoes.
'Ooh!' Milligan backed away. 'They look awful heavy, Father.
Would you like ter lift one to see if me fears are well founded ?'
'Saints alive, Milligan, there's no weight in 'em at all, man,' said the priest, lifting one and making long sweeping strokes. 'See?
No weight in 'em at all,' he repeated, holding his groin for suspected rupture. He stood at the door and pointed out. 'You can start against that wall there and work inwards. If only I was younger.'
So saying the priest made off up the path. As he did, Milligan thought he heard suppressed laughter coming from the holy man. Carefully Milligan folded his jacket and cap and placed them on the roots of a flowering oak. He turned and faced the ocean of tall waving grass. His unshaven face took on that worried look of responsibility. Spitting in his hands he took hold of the instrument. Placing his feet apart he threw the scythe behind him, then, with a cry of'Hi ayeee! Hoo! Hup-la!' he let go with a mighteous low curling chop; it started way behind him but, never a man of foresight, so great was the initial momentum, by the time the scythe had travelled ninety degrees it was beyond his control.
All he could do was hang on; the great blade flashed past his white terrified face disappearing behind his back, taking both of his arms out of sight and sockets, at the same time corkscrewing his legs which gave off an agonized crackling sound from his knees. For a brief poetic moment he stayed twisted and poised, then fell sideways like a felled ox.' Must be nearly lunch time,' he thought as he hit the ground. The Lord said:' Six days shalt thou labour and on the seventh thou shalt rest.' He hadn't reckoned wid the unions. Forty-eight hours a week shalt thou labour and on the seventh thou shalt get double time. Ha. It was more profitable to be in the unions.
As Milligan laboured unevenly through the afternoon, long overgrown tombstones came to light,
R.I.P.
Tom Conlon O'Rourke. Not Dead, just Sleeping.
'He's not kiddin' anyone but himself,' Milligan chuckled irreverently. What was all dis dyin' about, anyhow? It was a strange and mysterious thing, no matter how you looked at it.' I wonder what heaven is really like? Must be pretty crowded by now, it's been goin' a long time.' Did they have good lunches?
Pity dere was so little information. Now, if there was more brochures on the place, more people might be interested in going dere. Dafs what the church needed, a good Public Relations man. ' Come to heaven where it's real cool.' ' Come to heaven and enjoy the rest.' ' Come to heaven where old friends meet, book now to avoid disappointment!' Little catch phrases like dat would do the place a power of good. Mind you, dere were other questions, like did people come back to earth after they die, like them Buddhists say.
In dat religion you got to come back as an animal.
Mmm, a cat! Dat's the best animal to come back as, sleep all day, independent, ha! that was the life, stretched out in front of a fire, but no, Oh hell, they might give me that terrible cat operation, no no I forgot about that. Come to think of it, who the hell wants to come back again anyhow ? Now, honest, how many people in life have had a good enough time to come back ? Of course if you could come back as a woman you could see the other side of life
? By gor, dat would be an experience, suppose you wakes up one morning and finds you're a woman ? What would he do? Go for a walk and see what happens. Oh yes, all this dyin' was a funny business, still, it was better to believe in God than not.
You certainly couldn't believe in men. Bernard Shaw said ' Every man over forty is a scoundrel', ha ha ha, Milligan laughed aloud, ' Every one round dese parts is a scoundrel at sixteen!' Bernard Shaw, dere was a great man, the Irish Noel Coward. A tiny insect with wings hovered stock still in front of Milligan's face. 'I wonder if he's tryin' to hypnotize me,' he thought, waving the creature away.
The sun bled its scarlet way to the horizon and the skies nodded into evening. The birds flew to their secret somewheres, and bats grew restless at the coming of night. Milligan puzzled at the church clock. 4.32 ? Good heavens, it gets dark early round here.
' How are you getting on then, Dan ?'
At the sound of the priest's voice, Milligan put on a brief energetic display of hoeing. The priest blew his nose. 'Farnnnn -
farnnnnnnnn,' it went, in a deep melodious Eb.' I think you've done enough for today, it's nearly seven.'
' Seven ?' Milligan cursed in his head.' Trust me to work to a bloody stopped clock!'
'You mustn't kill yerself, Milligan.'
' I'm in the right place if I do.'
They both laughed.
A cool breeze blew in from the Atlantic, fetching the smell of airborne waves. The first ectoplasms of evening mist were forming over the river. Here and there fishes mouthed an O at the still surface. The Angelus rang out its iron prayer. Murphy, out in his fields, dropped his hoe and joined hands in prayer. 'The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary.'
The near Godless Milligan trundled his bike towards the Holy Drinker,
'IIIIIII
Once knew a Judy in Dubleen town Her eyes were blue and her hair was brown One night on the grass I got her downnnn and the
. . .'
The rest of the words were lost to view as the song turned a bend* in the road.
'I wonder if I'll see him again,' pondered Father Rudden. For that reason he had refrained from paying Milligan by the day.
*This was a different bend to the previous one. S.M.
Chapter Three
The pub door flew in and a fast stream of silent drinkers moved into position. The air was immediately machine-gunned with a rapid series of orders -' Guinness - Whiskey - Stout - Gin - Beer -
Rum -Port - Beer - Stout - Stout -'. There followed a silence as the day's troubles were washed away with great liver-crippling draughts of alcohol. Stock still they stood, waiting the warming glow that makes us acceptable to all men and vice versa. The first one to feel a powerful benefit was blind George Devine, a thin white El Greco figure with two sightless sockets.
'Good evenin' all,' he said, 'it's been a lovely day, has it not ?' He spoke with the authority of a man who had seen it all. Blind since his sixth year, he could just remember the shapes and colours of the countryside. Those fragile memories were all he had to relieve his Guinness-blaok darkness. Still vivid was that last seeing moment. His sister on the swing, him pushing her away, mother calling 'Tea-time, children'.
He had turned to say 'Coming Mum', meeting the full force of the oncoming swing at eye line.
O'Brien was rattling the bar with his empty glass.
'A drop of the real hard stuff now lad,' he instructed the spotty thin potboy. O'Brien was the head man round these parts. He ran the village grocery and took bets. He also had money in the bank, a cousin in America and a girl in the family way. Forty years old, though a little puffy in the face, he was still a handsome man.
Like all men in Puckoon, he was married but single after six at night. When the war started he had, in a fit of drunken patriotism, joined the Con-naught Rangers, gone to France, caught the crabs and won the v.c. Arriving home on leave, he was greeted like a hero, given a presentation casket of blue unction and then thrown into jail for having obscene French postcards in his haversack. Constable Milli-kudie had confiscated the offending pictures, and slaved all night duplicating another hundred. Disguised as a tou
t, he later sold them to visiting Americans. '
Genuine Dublin night life,' he told the startled tourists. As a result two American warships were crewless for a month while the sailors searched Dublin for the like.
O'Brien was joined by his friend, Dr Sean Goldstein. So Semitic did he look, that even at all-Hebrew parties people would say,
'Who's that Jewish-looking feller ?' He hadjust come from the ailing Dan Doonan, where the patient had been complaining of a slight improvement.
'He's dying, for sure,' said Goldstein, parting a Guinness with his nose, ' It's a coronary condition. I give him the best drugs but, tsu, it's just a matter of time, which I suppose is the sentence we're all under.'
O'Brien lit a cigarette.' I sometimes think,' he said, mixing his words with smoke, 'it would be kinder to do away with incurables.'
'Oh, nobody's incurable,' Goldstein was quick to reply. 'It's just that we don't know the cure, and remember, what's good for the dying is sometimes bad for the living.' 'Eh?'
'Well, if he dies I'm worse off. Work it out for yerself.' f
'Oh, you're a hard man tell me, what's your feeling about abortions den ?'
'You're a Catholic. You know the answer to that.'
'True, but what's your opinion as a medical man?'
' Murder.'
'How about that London surgeon? The girl had been raped and he took it away. Was he right or wrong ?'
'I'll ask you the question which goes before that. Was the child right or wrong ?'
O'Brien noticed a heated tone creeping into Goldstein's voice.
'Well Doc, at the time it wasn't really a child.'
' If it wasn't really a child O'Brien, what was all the fuss about ?'
'Well,' began O'Brien, but was shut up by Goldstein -
'It's a bloody cosy little argument that, for the likes of get-rich-quick abortionists. It's not a child, it's just formed, it's just
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