‘No railings. It feels strange but, I have to say, profoundly satisfying. No more barriers between priest and flock.’
Precisely, Cormac thought. Fr Mullaly stepped onto the second and then third level where the altar table and tabernacle were. He stood centre-stage, as Cormac like to think of it, facing the main body of the old part of the church.
‘Raising the altar table a further step was an inspired suggestion on your part. It feels perfect, well done.’
Cormac acknowledged the compliment, though he was aware that the extra elevation had been Fr Mullaly’s own suggestion. Something about ascending to the table of the Lord, he remembered.
‘I hope that next Sunday, when the parishioners see this for the first time, they will appreciate your work, Cormac, not perhaps the intellectual complexity of your achievement, but at least they might, at a simple level, recognise something of its elegance and concede that all the collections and bingo nights and fund-raising of the last few years have been well worth it. I certainly think so.’
Cormac nodded modestly. He noticed Fr Mullaly was now staring towards the back of the church, presumably looking at the old organ loft, which had been sealed with reinforced glass to create a ‘crying area’, an idea imported from churches in the US. No doubt Fr Mullaly was enjoying the thought that, at last, his homilies would not have to compete with a wailing chorus, a particular hazard in a parish like this where there were so many small children, and mothers had little choice but to bring them along. However, when Cormac turned also, he realised that it was not the crying loft that had drawn the priest’s attention. It was a thin little boy standing in the aisle at the back. Fr Mullaly’s tone hinted he was not pleased to be interrupted.
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Sister Goretti said I had to come and see you, Father. Father Tierney told me you were here.’
‘Sister Goretti?’
‘Yes. About my first Holy Communion.’
‘Oh yes. What time? You’re early?’
‘Sister Goretti said three o’clock.’
Cormac couldn’t help checking his watch. Exactly three o’clock. The child’s hair was carefully brushed and his clothes looked like they might be the best his mother could manage.
‘Yes, yes. Well unfortunately I have very important business to deal with at the moment. I’ll arrange another time with Sister Goretti.’
The boy looked so disappointed that Cormac was touched. Quietly, diplomatically, he whispered to Fr Mullaly.
‘You know, I have a number of minor things to check for my snag-list. I’d be happy to take ten minutes on my own. Then we can finish our discussion?’
‘Well, as long as it suits you, Cormac. In fact I think I did promise Sister Goretti I’d talk to this little fellow.’
Fr Mullaly went to the back of the church and sat the boy down. As Cormac moved about, checking details, making little notes, he was conscious of the distant voices, one deep, one light, first one, then the other. It sounded in Cormac’s ears like a mildly comic duet with the rhythm of question and answer. From the way it flowed back and forth it seemed the boy knew his part very well. If anything, he had the larger role. They went on longer than Cormac expected. He had finished his checklist long before Fr Mullaly dismissed the boy. As he was leaving, it occurred to Cormac he might be useful for a particular test.
‘Little boy, before you go, could you do us a favour? Sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Francis.’
‘Francis, have you a good pair of lungs on you?’
The child looked puzzled.
‘Can you project? Do you mind shouting?’
Francis smiled and shyly shook his head. Cormac pointed up to the crying loft.
‘Well, you’d be doing Fr Mullaly and me a great favour if you went up there and shouted your head off. Do you mind?’
‘It’s all right, Francis. It would help us.’
‘Shout as loud as you like.’
Francis went up the stairs. When Cormac and the priest stepped onto the altar and turned, they saw the child, his hands pushing against the reinforced glass, his mouth open, in what looked like a sustained howl.
But they could hear nothing.
‘Amazing, Cormac. That’s absolutely splendid.’
Fr Mullaly gestured and the boy come down. Cormac noticed that the priest seemed preoccupied, staring after him as he left the church. Finally he spoke.
‘You know, when sent to a parish like this, one hopes that, however unlikely the possibility may be, one will uncover a diamond in the rough. Well, Sister Goretti requested I see that boy because she feels strongly he is more than ready for his first Holy Communion; very bright, very pious, with understanding beyond his years. She told me an interesting story to illustrate this. The boy came first in the Christmas spelling test and she offered him a choice of prizes, a two-shilling piece or the class crib to take home. Well, apparently without hesitation, he chose the crib.’
‘Very devout. But I don’t understand. Is there some difficulty?’
‘A technical one. As you know, the church deems seven to be the age at which a child has sufficient reason to be allowed take the sacrament of Communion. This boy won’t be seven until June and first Holy Communion happens in May. Sister Goretti would like me to make an exception.’
Out of nowhere Cormac felt a spasm, a dart of jealousy. By coincidence, his youngest daughter Gráinne would be seven in June also. She was clever and devout as any child her age but she wasn’t even in the Holy Communion class. It had been long decided that she would make it next year. Why should this boy be any different? Fr Mullaly was still talking about him.
‘I asked him his Catechism. He answered everything correctly; original sin, the difference between venial and mortal sin, he named the seven deadly sins, all the sacraments, he understood what contrition and penance were all about, he explained the Resurrection, the Ascension, sanctifying grace and actual grace, Judgement Day, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Limbo. When he recited the Confiteor and the Our Father and the Creed he didn’t sing it off in a meaningless way like most boys his age. He said it with proper emphasis and reverence.’
Cormac Kiely recognised his own reaction as foolish jealous anger. This was silly, he told himself. Yet he knew already that, when he got home this evening, he would be asking his daughter to say the Creed and making sure she knew it properly. Fr Mullaly was still speaking about this boy.
‘I even went beyond what a first Holy Communicant would normally be expected to know and asked him questions about temptation. I wouldn’t even expect you to know the answer, s let alone a six-year-old? What is temptation? The child answered precisely. “Temptation is anything that incites, provokes or urges us to offend God.” I asked what is the best means of overcoming temptation? Can we always resist temptation? Is it a sin to be tempted? He could answer them all.’
By now Cormac had heard enough about this boy, who seemed to have entirely distracted Fr Mullaly from the important matter of his church renovation. Did he think this child was some saint in the making? Cormac now regretted allowing Louise to persuade him to wait another year before sending Gráinne to school. She would have been just as ready for Holy Communion as this little brat. He couldn’t stop himself making one last mean – he knew even as he said it how mean it was – and destructive comment.
‘I’ve just discovered something unexpected about you, Father. Having experienced the remarkable complexity of your intellect through our work on this marvellous project –’
‘Well, thank you.’
‘I’d never have thought you would let the heart rule the head. Particularly with regard to the Holy Sacraments.’
Fr Mullaly seemed to take this on board. He nodded, thoughtful. The architect steered the discussion away from the child, back to the fine details of his renovation but, even though they talked for another hour and he received many more compliments for his achievement, Cormac Kiely never quite felt he succeeded in recapturing Fr Mulla
ly’s full attention.
*
Too much coffee. Far too much Hanley. It was after midnight in the Coffee Dock and no sign of Charlie or Brian or anyone who might rescue Dom. For some time now he had been wondering if all the favourable mentions in the famous column, all the oleaginous myth-making was worth the time spent and tedium suffered indulging the tenacious ego that once again, was keeping him from his bed. Tonight it was the presidential election in June that served as the trampoline on which Hanley could bounce the enormous arse of his opinion.
‘As a perspicacious man, Dom, tell me this: have they lost their grip at party headquarters, putting Dev up again? I know, I know, you don’t need to explain the thinking, 1916 hero, fiftieth anniversary, I know all that.’
The trouble was Hanley knew fucking everything. And insisted on telling Dom everything he knew, even about Dom himself. But if he stopped indulging him, what then? Could he survive without the fairy dust of Hanley’s approval in his weekly column?
‘The man is eighty-four and blind as O’Carolan! He’s not just yesterday’s man, he’s the day before yesterday’s man. Does anyone in Fianna Fáil watch the Late Late Show? Has anyone been looking at what the kids are up to in the beat clubs?’
Dom drew some amusement from the disturbing image of balding piggy-eyed Hanley, who had probably never been young, infiltrating beat clubs to do a little research into what the kids were up to.
‘They’re going wild for the likes of Jagger while Dev probably thinks Butch Moore is a pernicious influence. That’s if he even knows who Butch Moore is. Ye’re on a hiding to nothing with this. If Dev wins then the country loses. It means we’re still backward as bejasus with the oldest head of state in the known world. He’s older than Mao or Tito! If Dev loses it’s humiliation for an aging national hero and a massive embarrassment to the Government.’
‘He won’t lose.’
‘He might lose. I think he will lose. And I’m getting whispers in my ear that he doesn’t even want to run.’
Dom knew this to be true and loathed himself for being so weak as to offer Hanley a tiny nod of the head by way of unattributable confirmation. Jesus! This was pathetic. He had given up the drink, why couldn’t he beat this other addiction? Sucking at the media teat. How long more would tonight’s incarceration continue before he could legitimately make an excuse and leave without causing offence and tantrums and probably a thinly veiled reprimand in next week’s column?
‘And the laugh of it is, the madness of it is, the perfect solution, the ideal candidate is staring you all in the face.’
With a repellent combination of canine eagerness and feline arrogance, Hanley’s jowly grin begged the question. Dom knew the choice was either a knuckle sandwich to wipe that look off his face, or just give in and ask.
‘And who would that be?’
‘Lemass.’
‘Lemass?’
‘Lemass.’
‘For President? Give up being Taoiseach? Why?’
‘Oh I know, sure I’d have him as Taoiseach for another thirty years, but that ain’t gonna happen, as the man says. He’s getting on, no more than the rest of us, although of course, compared to Dev, he’s but a leppin’ foal. But don’t you see the advantages of sending Lemass to the Park? They are several and significant. First of all, in crude election terms, you’d be on a winner. He’d sail in, no question, right? Secondly it would allow Dev to do his bit of wreath-laying this Easter, attend a commemorative Mass or three and, finally, with dignity, drift away, undefeated, into the dusk of a well-earned retirement. Thirdly, if I was looking for someone who might do something interesting with the constitutional abomination known as the Presidency, then Seán Lemass would be the man I’d choose. And finally… it paves the way for a dynamic young Taoiseach. Someone with Big Ideas.’
Now it hit Dom where this was coming from. Hanley was parroting Charlie’s script. Did the Lizard son-in-law seriously think that by some miracle this would actually happen? That Lemass would shuffle off to Áras an Uachtarán and Charlie would, in the blink of an eye, succeed him as Taoiseach? Wishful thinking. The trouble with people like Charlie was that they thought power was all about political manoeuvring, being the smart cookie. But Dom was genuinely surprised at Hanley thinking the same way because, buried somewhere under that butter-basted ego, a proper, serious brain lurked. Had he become so besotted with the Lizard that he had lost the capacity for independent thought? If so, Dom would have to keep his own counsel in future. Come up with a Big Idea in silence.
Thirteen: March 18th
Sister Goretti said that the big 1916 poster with the Proclamation of the Irish Republic on it had been sent to every school in the country. Sister Goretti said the Proclamation was the most important event in the history of Ireland and it happened fifty years ago this Easter. Francis had asked his dad if he remembered the 1916 Rising but, before he could open his mouth to answer, his mam said, ‘The cheek of you, neither of us were even born until years after the Rising.’ The nuns had hung the poster on the wall near the main door of the school and Francis couldn’t pass by without stopping to look at it. He had even started learning the Proclamation off by heart. He stood in front of the poster for a couple of minutes every day until he had learned another small bit. Francis found it easy to remember things like poems and songs, his Catechism and even how to say Mass. If there was a word he didn’t understand, he was good at guessing how to say it. Already he could remember loads of it.
TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND. IRISHMEN AND IRISHWOMEN: In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom. Having organised and trained her manhood through her secret revolutionary organisation, the Irish Republican Brotherhood, and through her open military organisations, the Irish Volunteers and the Irish Citizen Army, having patiently perfected her discipline, having resolutely waited for the right moment to reveal itself, she now seizes that moment, and supported by her exiled children in America and by gallant allies in Europe, but relying in the first on her own strength, she strikes in full confidence of victory. We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland and to the unfettered –
Francis understood every word until ‘unfettered’. Then straight after that were more hard words like ‘sovereign’ and ‘indefeasible’ and ‘usurpation’. The sentence with ‘usurpation’ in it was very hard to learn and every time he tried to say it all off from the start he always got stuck there.
‘The long usurpation of that right by a foreign people and government has not extinguished the right, nor can it ever be extinguished except by the destruction of the Irish people.’
It got a bit easier after that. He had never seen the word ‘asserted’ before but he could guess what it meant. And ‘sovereignty’ was like ‘sovereign’ so, by the time he read ‘sovereign’ a second time. he’d guessed that it must have something to do with being free.
‘… We hereby proclaim the Irish Republic as a Sovereign Independent State and we pledge our lives and the lives of our comrades in arms to the cause of its freedom, of its welfare, and of its exaltation among the nations.’
Francis wished he could pledge something to God and Ireland but he didn’t know what. Yesterday he wore a shamrock and a badge with a harp on it. His dad took him and Marian and Martin to the St Patrick’s Day parade. It wasn’t as good as the big parade in Dublin that he saw on television later, with the high-school bands from America but still, they stood in the rain cheering all the local floats from Mattersons and Krups and Spaights and the CBS pipe band and the Boherbouy brass band. They were proud of their city and proud to be Irish. Since he’d first heard about the 1916 Rising, Francis had prayed every night that Ireland would always be free. He also prayed that he would be allowed to make his Holy Communion soon. He wanted to do more but he didn’t know what. Learning the Proclamation was something. The sentence he learned today
was easy.
‘The Irish Republic is entitled to, and hereby claims, the allegiance of every Irishman and Irishwoman.’
He didn’t know what ‘allegiance’ was. He would ask Sister Goretti. He was more than halfway through now. He hoped to learn the whole Proclamation by the Easter holidays.
On the top part of the poster there were photos of the seven leaders of the Rising who were executed by the British. Sister Goretti liked Patrick Pearse best of all and talked about him all the time. She told the class he was a teacher who owned a very special school called St Enda’s and he loved young people. He was a poet as well and he wrote poems about the beauty of Ireland. He was a very good Catholic and when he was a small boy he made a promise to God that he would give his life for Ireland. Every time Sister Goretti talked about him her voice changed into a slow whisper. Francis wanted to like Patrick Pearse as much as Sister Goretti but for some reason he didn’t. He wasn’t sure why. Was it because in the photograph he turned his face away? All the other 1916 heroes looked straight out. That’s what people were supposed to do when their photo was being taken. He was always told look at the camera and say ‘cheese’. His dad was always caught with his eyes closed, which was funny. Why did Patrick Pearse look away and only show one side of his face? Francis asked Sister Goretti about it and she said it was a mystery, but maybe his mind was on more important things like the freedom of Ireland and he wasn’t bothered about posing for a photograph. Francis asked his godmother Mary and she said she hadn’t a clue but his godfather Mikey said it was because he had a pig in his eye. Francis didn’t know what he meant and his godmother said don’t mind that fellah he’s only acting the eejit and his godfather said no I’m serious, he had a pig in his eye and he was too embarrassed to let people see it. He told Francis to think about it and, later on that day, Francis got it. Pig. Sty. Patrick Pearse had a sty in his eye. He asked his dad if that was true and his dad said he couldn’t be sure but he had heard some story along those lines. After that, every time Francis looked at the photo of Patrick Pearse he tried to imagine the other eye. Had he turned his face to one side because he was afraid everyone would be laughing at the sty in his eye? Some of the boys laughed at Dickie Fennessy, a boy in senior infants who was cross-eyed, so maybe Patrick Pearse was right to turn away. Still, it didn’t make Francis like him any better. His favourite 1916 hero was Seán MacDermott. He didn’t really know why but he always ended up looking at his photo more than all the others. Was it because of his sad eyes? Sister Goretti said Seán McDermot had polio when he was a child and he walked with a limp. Francis wanted to know more but, because Sister Goretti talked about Patrick Pearse so much, she hadn’t much time to say anything about Seán MacDermott or any of the others. All she said about James Connolly was that he was injured during the Rising and he couldn’t stand up, so the British had cruelly executed him tied to a chair. She said Tom Clarke was the oldest. That was easy to see, with his white hair and moustache and glasses like his Grandad Robert who was eighty-two when he died. Francis couldn’t imagine him going out with a gun to start a war. But looking at the photographs of the leaders of the Rising, Francis couldn’t imagine any of them being soldiers, not like the ones he saw in the Victor or Hotspur anyway. Except James Connolly. He looked tough enough but even he was a bit too fat. He looked like Uncle Seán Enright with his moustache and beer belly. Tom Clarke was too old and Seán MacDermott had a limp and Sister Goretti said that Tomás MacDonagh and Joseph Plunkett were poets like Patrick Pearse. They were all dreamers and poets she said. And martyrs. But then Francis thought, maybe that was the reason everyone said they were so brave, because they went out and fought even though they weren’t any good at it. Francis didn’t like fighting even though he was tall for his age, and he was useless at throwing stones. He’d never have the courage to go into battle like that. Not even to save Ireland? Well, maybe, if he had to, Jesus would give him the courage.
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