Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars

by Jean Grainger

  He was walking back from dropping the girls to school, they’d been off for the first few weeks after the funeral, but Father Aquinas said it would be best for them to go back, be with their pals and try to get a bit of normality back in their lives. Patrick asked Mrs Tobin, and she agreed but said to tell the teacher that if they were ever upset they were to send someone down for her and she’d go and collect them. He never asked Mrs Tobin if she’d look after the girls on a permanent basis but it was a given. She missed Liam so much, now that he was in the seminary, and she had time on her hands. Connie and Anna loved her. Mam would have wanted Mrs Tobin to do it, they were best friends, and it had allowed him to go back to work. Jim O’Neill had been great, telling him to take as much time off as he wanted, but he wanted to get back. It wasn’t good for him, sitting around the house all day, brooding. The lads from the hurling team tried to get him to come out to a dance, but he wasn’t in the form, it was too soon, and anyway, his sisters started to fret if he didn’t get back at six on the dot.

  Patrick was lost in thought and almost collided with Father Aquinas as he came out of the tobacco shop across the road from the monastery. Hugo used to go there to buy contraband cigarettes when they were in school, much to Liam’s disapproval.

  ‘Ah, Patrick, how are you?’ The old priest was kind. He had retired from teaching earlier in the year and was taking on a more pastoral role in the community. Patrick and Liam felt a huge debt of gratitude to the man they feared so much as boys, without him they would never have entered the hallowed halls of St Bart’s.

  ‘Hello, Father, I’m all right, you know yourself,’ was the best he could muster.

  ‘It’s very hard for you, that’s true, but you are made of tough stuff, Mr Lynch, always were, you’ll do well. How are the little girls getting on back in school?’

  ‘Well, the first few days were tough, but they’re settling now. Anyway, everyone said it was best for them so…’ Patrick dug his hands into his pockets against the skinning December breeze blowing up the hill from the river below.

  ‘Lord, but it is perishing, isn’t it? Will you come in for a cup of something hot?’ Father Aquinas asked, ‘or have you something to do?’

  ‘Thanks, Father, I’d love it. I have loads to do, I suppose. I’ve the day off, and I was going to try to clear out the yard behind a bit. When we cleared out the house, everything got dumped out there and come the summer, it would be nice for the girls to have somewhere to play, but I just can’t face it…’

  The priest patted him on the shoulder and said kindly, ‘Yerra, the whole world looks a bit brighter after a cup of tea and a bun, I always think. It is nothing that can’t wait, I’m sure.’

  As Patrick followed him up the avenue to the monastery, the priest chatted about the new students and how strange it felt not to be facing a whole class of small lads this year. Patrick relaxed in his easy chat and marvelled at how Liam and he used to be terrified of him when they were small.

  ‘I was talking to Liam when he was home for the funeral; he seems to be getting along fine in Maynooth,’ Father Aquinas said. ‘I’d say ye miss each other though, do ye? Yourselves and young Hugo FitzHenry were as thick as thieves. A right unlikely bunch ye were too…’ He chuckled as he opened the door and squeaked down the polished hallway in his rubber-soled shoes.

  Hugo had a theory that priests wore different shoes to most men so that they could sneak up on fellas smoking.

  They entered the big, warm kitchen, with its welcoming aroma of baking.

  ‘Sister Catherine is at Mass, she brings the older priests to ten o’clock. She’s a saint that woman, a walking saint, the way she puts up with us and looks after us. Her apple tart is one of the great wonders of the world. I’m a divil for sweet things. I’ll have to cop on now in the new year, but Christmas is no time to be thinking of the waistline, sure it isn’t. Your mother, God rest her, was a lovely baker as well, I used to call to her on the odd occasion, and she’d always have the scones or a bit of brack. Sure I’m desperate altogether for the sweets.’ He smiled, patting his stomach. He always used to be tall and skinny, but Patrick saw a bit of a paunch where there never had been before.

  As Father Aquinas busied himself with kettles and rooted around in a tin for cake, Patrick took in his surroundings. He’d not been in this kitchen since the day Aquinas brought them in to tell them they were going to St Bart’s and gave them lemonade and sticky buns.

  Father Aquinas set the tea things out and produced a fruit cake.

  ‘How is young Hugo? Enjoying being Lord of the Manor, I suppose?’

  ‘He’s grand, Father, grand out. I saw him a few weeks back, he gave me a load of antiques out of Greyrock for the house, worth a fortune, I’d say. My poor mam couldn’t have dreamed we’d ever have things so nice, even if they do look a bit mad in our tiny terraced house.’ Patrick smiled. ‘I might take my sisters down there for a short holiday over Christmas. Hugo is always inviting us, Mrs Tobin as well. ‘It is some place he has, like a small castle or something—land and cattle and horses and the whole lot. It is a million miles away from here, I can tell you. I remember the first time Liam and I went down there, we were like eejits not knowing what to say or do, but sure Hugo’s fairly normal under it all.’ Patrick joked but then became serious. ‘To be honest, Father, I don’t know how we’d have managed without him, y’know. He lent me the money for the funeral and everything, and he calls up and down all the time, takes us out for drives in his car. The girls are mad about him, and he spoils them rotten.’

  ‘He’s a grand lad, Hugo, and it isn’t easy having a life like that foisted on you even if it looks very glamorous from the outside, you know, no more than yourself, Patrick. He never had a choice, only to go back there and take over from his father, God rest him, and sure maybe he’d have wanted a different kind of a life, but he can’t have it. Isn’t life strange that the three of ye, so close as ye are, all had to cope with the death of a parent very young? Liam losing his father the way he did and keeping his mother going after, and your poor mother, and you having to become a family man before your time, and Hugo’s father leaving him with all that responsibility whether he liked it or not.’

  Patrick was slightly taken aback. Why wouldn’t Hugo want to run Greyrock? He loved the place. It struck him as an odd thing for Father Aquinas to say. They chatted and ate for an hour. It was nice to talk about hurling and the weather and greyhound racing, Father Aquinas’s secret vice.

  As he left, the priest shook his hand warmly.

  ‘That girl, Helen, she was a great help to you over the last while, wasn’t she?’

  Patrick was surprised the priest noticed a girl, he wasn’t even sure he would recognise one. Female people, apart from nuns, didn’t feature at all in the life of the priests of St Bart’s.

  ‘Er...yes, Father, she works in the same place as me. She calls up a few times a week and she’s been very nice to the girls, has them playing camogie and all. They’re delighted with her.’

  ‘Well, you could do worse,’ Father Aquinas said with a smile.

  ‘Ah no, Father, she’s not my…’ He felt intimidated even using the word girlfriend in front of a priest. All they had ever been taught by the priests was that girls were nothing more than occasions of sin in a young man’s life, and the best thing was to steer clear if they wanted to keep their soul pristine.

  ‘She’s just a friend from work,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Well, Patrick, I do know your mother was worried about the kind of girls you were knocking around with, so I just wanted to say I think she’d like Helen very much. I know you’re young, but maybe it is time you thought about settling down. You need to provide a stable home for your sisters now, and it is a hard thing for a lad to do on his own.’

  Patrick was shocked. Was Father Aquinas seriously suggesting he get married? To Helen? He was only going to be twenty next month.

  ‘Ah, Father, I’ve no notions in that dire
ction for a while yet,’ he joked, albeit a little nervously. Talking to a priest about girls in any way, shape, or form was alien territory.

  ‘I’m not saying you should get the banns read this weekend, Patrick. I just think that if the Lord sent a nice, kind girl like Helen into your life when you needed a bit of a dig out, you should sit up and take notice. That’s all.’

  He bade him goodbye at the door, and Patrick walked back down the avenue. Maybe the priest was right, Helen was a lovely girl, and Connie and Anna really liked her. Maybe when things settled down and he was feeling a bit better in himself, he’d ask her to come on an outing with them, to the pictures or something.

  He returned to his house and got a start on breaking up the remains of the old furniture in the yard. Even though the cold was biting, it felt good to be doing physical work. The time flew and before he realised it, it was time to collect the girls from school. He’d told Mrs Tobin that he’d do it today.

  Mrs Tobin knocked on her window as he passed, beckoning him into her house. Connie and Anna’s coats were hung up on the banister at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘They’re inside having their lunch, don’t worry,’ Mrs Tobin spoke quietly to him in the hallway, closing the door behind her so the girls couldn’t hear them.

  ‘How come they’re home? Did something happen at school?’ he asked.

  ‘I was looking for you to let you know,’ she began.

  ‘I was out the back chopping timber, I probably didn’t hear you knocking, sorry,’ he said, deeply concerned now.

  ‘Well, apparently, Anna started screaming at school saying she saw your father out the window of the classroom. Now, she was probably only imagining it. God knows what the poor little mite’s been through, but the teacher sent an older girl down for me, and I collected them.’

  The guards still had no luck in finding Joe Lynch. He had evaded capture for over a month now, despite their best efforts. Every few days, Donal McMullan visited Patrick to let him know of their progress in the investigation but so far nothing. There was a chance he took the boat to England before the alarm was raised, but it was unlikely. The sailing of the Inisfallen out of Cork on the day of the murder was two hours after Mrs Tobin raised the alarm. By then, the ports were being watched. Patrick assumed he must have got a spin in a van or a lorry down to Rosslare, the port in Wexford, and left from there. The guards scoured the city, the usual places, the down and outs hung around, but nobody had seen him. Donal told Patrick that no stone was left unturned, they even rounded up all the tramps and petty criminals and brought them in for questioning, but it was as if Lynch had vanished into thin air.

  Patrick went into the kitchen and the girls ran to him, jam smeared on their faces.

  ‘I saw him, Patrick, I promise I saw him. He was looking in the window of the school. There was a man with him, a huge tall man with red hair…’ Anna began to sob. Connie’s eyes were bright, but she was trying to be brave. Patrick knew both girls were terrified of their father.

  ‘I believe you, Anna,’ Patrick said, catching Mrs Tobin’s eye. Anna didn’t lie. If she said she’d seen him, then she had, which meant he never went to England, or else he was now back. Suddenly a thought struck him. A place, a horrible, old half-house-half-pub his father used to go to years ago. The fella that owned it must have been over six foot, and he used to deal in stolen property. He had a big head of red hair. Patrick never told anyone, not even Liam, but his father used to make him rob houses when he was four or five. He’d shove Patrick in through the windows and tell him to grab as much as he could. Once he got too big to fit through, he was off the hook but even then he knew it was wrong and he hated doing it. They would bring the stuff out to this place and the fella with the red hair would give them money for it, which Patrick knew his father would drink and then come roaring and shouting and breaking the place up again. Patrick was fairly sure the guards wouldn’t have checked that place; it looked derelict the last time he passed it. There was a slim chance that his father was there, and he knew he should call the guards, tell them of his suspicions, but he wanted to be sure he was right first.

  ‘I have to go somewhere. You’ll keep them, won’t you, till I get back?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, but back from where? Where are you going, Patrick?’ Mrs Tobin was worried.

  Patrick didn’t answer her. He didn’t want to lie, and he knew she’d worry if he told her the truth. He just wanted to check, it was probably empty but just in case, he wanted to see for himself.

  ‘Nothing probably, I just need to check something. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Thanks, Mrs T.’

  He walked up the hill into the biting cold December wind as dusk settled on the city. Smoke from the chimneys of the terraced houses swirled into the dark sky. The smell of turf and wood combined with the odour of the low tide was so familiar to him it should have given him comfort, but tonight it didn’t. He strode on determined to find Joe Lynch. The exercise was keeping him warm as he climbed the hill out of the city. It was getting dark and his jacket wasn’t providing much resistance to the sharp wind. People were scurrying past, their Christmas shopping in bags, heads down against the skinning gusts that carried sleet and the threat of snow as the night went on. As he walked, Patrick racked his brain for memories, anything that would help him find his father. He desperately wanted to tell Connie and Anna that they had nothing to fear, that he was out of their lives for good. It was the only way to rebuild some of their trust that had been shattered by the loss of their mother.

  His father had a few drinking buddies. He called them his associates, but they were no more than a bunch of drunks like him. That place—where the red-haired man was—consisted of one room with a sour smell and a few broken chairs. He tried to visualise it in his mind. It was out past the city boundaries, two or three miles out into the country, in the direction of Mallow. The guards wouldn’t have made any connection between there and Joe Lynch though. His father was nothing if not cunning. He had never been arrested for robbery or anything like that, even though he’d done plenty of burglaries.

  He walked on, thinking all the time. The lights of the city faded, and he found himself on a narrow country road, unlit except by the occasional passing car. The houses seemed to all be back from the road so fields stretched on either side of the road away into the infinite, inky night. Eventually, he was across the road from the pub. To the outside, it didn’t even look like a proper pub, more like a ramshackle old house, but one crooked Guinness sign hung limply from the gable. There was a light inside, shining weakly out into the complete darkness. The paint was peeling off the walls outside, and weeds and briars grew in profusion all around it. A less inviting place would be hard to imagine. Patrick crept around the side and hid in the brambles and blackberry bushes that pushed against the walls. He spotted a window slightly ajar with heavy curtains drawn almost closed hanging inside. The right hand curtain was hanging limply, having lost some hooks, so a slice of the room was visible. He crept under the window and waited, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest he was sure whoever was inside would be able to hear it. Rustling in the briars behind him made him shudder, rats probably. He tried to concentrate on the sounds coming from inside the building. There were definitely voices inside, but they were indistinct. Suddenly, the murmured hum burst into a crescendo of raucous laughter and the clink of glasses sang out. Someone was having a great time. Taking advantage of the noise, Patrick stood up and peeped in through the chink in the curtains. Sure enough there he was, Joe Lynch, and he was holding court inside, surrounded by a bunch of men in various states of physical degeneration. The tall red-haired man was exactly as Patrick remembered him. He was leaning on a makeshift bar, observing everything. Joe was mid story, he always fancied himself as a raconteur, and the gathered audience hung on his every word.

  Again the voice dropped in volume, making it impossible to hear what his father was saying, but Patrick watched incensed as his father
carried on his story without a care in the world.

  Joe Lynch looked so much older than his forty-five years, but a lifetime of hard drinking, fighting, falling, and poor nutrition meant he was a battered-looking specimen. His hair was long now, balding on top but growing past his collar, and straggly grey. He was unshaven and filthy looking, in clothes Patrick didn’t recognise. Patrick shuddered at the thought that that creature was his father. The laces were missing from his boots, and he looked like a tramp that you’d see hanging around the quays in town. Even though he was horrible to her, Mam always made an effort with his clothes, trying to have him turned out as nicely as possible. People were quick to judge a whole family based on the husband’s appearance. It was almost an unwritten competition, who’s got the nicest house, the best turned out family, the best coat at Mass on Sunday. It was ridiculous really when nobody had very much, tuppence ha’penny looking down on tuppence, his mam used to laugh. The wave of pain and anger washed over him again, his mam was gone, died a terrible brutal death, and that monstrous tyrant was still alive.