by James Hanley
Father Richard Moynihan was fifty-five years of age. Tall, thin, with steel-blue eyes and thin grey hair, he looked exactly what he was, a priest of God. The lean nervous face marked the ascetic in him, whilst the smiling blue eyes informed all who came in contact with him that though a priest of God, he had a sense of humour. He had been parish priest at St Sebastian’s for nineteen years. The Furys were already installed in number three Hatfields when he came over from Ireland. He had christened Peter, confirmed John, and married Maureen. He had a warm regard for Mrs Fury, whom he looked upon as a clean, honest, and hard-working woman. Father Moynihan’s congregation numbered some eight hundred souls. They were made up entirely of working people, with here and there a shopkeeper or merchant thrown in. By his very nature he had soon created a bond of sympathy and confidence between his parishioners and himself. Whilst looking after their spiritual welfare, he never forgot that they were human beings. He visited them in their homes at least once every three months. He interested himself in their welfare. He took part in their pleasure and hobbies. He organized outings for them, arranging everything himself. He had built a new hall for the young men of his congregation, and had put a billiard-table and games into it. He appointed Joseph Kilkey to look after it. He never lost touch with the people. Already he was arranging an outing to take place in July for the old members of his flock. At the moment he was worried. The strike had put a brake upon his enthusiasm, for nearly all the men in his congregation were out. Day after day the wives of these men came to him; he was kept busy day and night listening, advising. Only this morning Mr Ferris, who looked after the St Vincent de Paul funds, had come to tell him that they were exhausted. ‘Then something must be done, Ferris,’ Father Moynihan said. ‘I’ll see to it.’
He was now sitting in his study, leaning over his desk, his long fingers pressed against his cheeks. Before him lay a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. The intensity with which he looked at this paper might imply that he momentarily expected some words to write themselves upon it as though by magic. The priest was in fact studying a problem. He had been studying it for some months. When the strike came he gave it up. He turned a key in his brain and said, ‘Well, there! Some other time I will attend to you.’ Here was the problem again. And not his hand, but Miss Brigid Mangan’s hand, had turned that key and let it out again. That visit from Aunt Brigid had been a little disturbing. Peter Fury, a boy for whom he still had a high regard, in spite of his misdeed, he, the last child of the family, was going about with Desmond Fury’s wife. Was this true? He closed his eyes, and the whole interview came clearly before him. He could see Miss Mangan, expansive of bosom and wearing a grey dress, standing in the vestry, her face with its heavy flush, no longer smiling, but deadly serious. He smiled, thinking how she would still call him Richard. He had known Miss Mangan before his ordination. A nice problem, and one that whetted his appetite. ‘You must promise me, Brigid, that you will breathe a word to nobody, not even your sister.’
‘Yes, Richard,’ Miss Mangan had replied, and he had respected her sincerity. But would she keep silent? Surely Mrs Fury had enough to do.
‘I shall see to this,’ he had said.
‘A pretty problem,’ he said to himself, and opening his eyes, stared at the paper again. He rather prided himself not only upon his ability to solve problems, but also upon his unerring eye in spotting them. He picked up the pencil and wrote upon the piece of paper, ‘Downey’. Then he uttered the word aloud, repeating it as though by sheer repetition he could disentangle it from a certain web in his mind. If he kept this name before him long enough, something would be bound to happen. Nobody had been more surprised than Father Moynihan when Desmond Fury had brought this woman back from Ireland. And from what little he had heard of the event he had endeavoured to erect some sort of mental scaffolding upon which he might peg from time to time such ideas as occurred to him. But the surprise was not so much in Desmond’s marrying (he had never thought the man would commit himself to matrimony), no, the surprise lay in the fact that Desmond Fury had married the woman without any knowledge of her past, her home, or her people. To have met an obviously distressed woman on the banks of a river where he was angling one hot July morning, and to have accepted her there and then, no questions asked, only served to deepen the mystery. It seemed destined that he should fish in that river, that she should be there, that he should pack up his belongings there and then and return to Gelton. A man of Father Moynihan’s ability was not going to accept a situation like that without a strong pinch of salt. What had been the reason? What force had driven the thing to its conclusion? Was it that the attraction was purely physical? Was it his sheer physicalness that had been the key to the bargain? He had seen this woman once. A rather striking creature. But nobody was going to tell him, Father Richard Moynihan, that this union was ideal, even though its consummation might be founded upon a psychological theory. The more he thought over the matter, the more whetted became his appetite. He had known Mrs Fury’s eldest son long enough to discover that he was a simple, honest man. He did not credit him with any intellect, beyond the ordinary common sense that told a man his right hand from his left. He even smiled at his radicalism. He would be foolish, however, to pretend that the man’s marriage outside the chapel was no surprise to him. It was, considering the woman who had reared him. It was an action that had caused the first rift in the Fury household.
He now asked himself a question. He looked at the sheet of paper. ‘What has most surprised me?’ He tapped his pencil sharply upon the oak desk, as if he were summonsing the answer to appear at once. Yes! What was it? He leaned further over the desk. Was it the difference in types? She, at one glance, seemed to stamp her mental superiority over her husband. Was it the mere fact that Desmond had married at all? No. It was the obscurity. That was it. This woman had just arrived from nowhere. They were now installed in Vulcan Street, their lives wrapped in the same mystery. But – and Father Moynihan tapped again with his pencil. But now they both went out. They were never in. And they were hardly ever seen together. He knew what kept the man out. But what was she up to? He questioned Mrs Fury one day. ‘I know nothing about this woman,’ Mrs Fury replied, ‘except that her name is Downey.’ All that meant nothing. Ireland was full of Downeys. Whichever way he looked at it, it seemed to mirror a fascination. He had only seen Desmond once since his marriage. Desmond and his wife had been standing waiting for a car. He retained a perfect picture of her in his mind. There was something about her that had struck him very forcibly. She had the forehead and eyes of a striking, even noble woman. But the lower part of the face seemed to mock that which crowned it. It was as though Nature had played a trick upon this woman. She was two persons in one, as if Nature had given her two forces, one which climbed and one which descended. Which of these two sides of Sheila Fury’s nature was destined to conquer? That was another problem which he, Father Moynihan, had registered in his mind. Some time he would sit down and ponder upon the matter. At the moment it could wait. It interested him, psychologically and physiologically. He looked at the name Downey which he had written on the half-sheet of paper. The interest now was sociological. What did this woman do with herself? Where did she go at night? Who were her friends? Perhaps she had relations in the country. Was her continuous absence from the house a demonstration of her husband’s utter blindness? No, he would not say that. Was it merely a demonstration of his simplicity? To ask no questions? To say nothing at all? What, then, was the basis of their union? Were they happy? He leaned back in his chair. Desmond was here, there, and everywhere. Yes, he had ambitions. Where did they lie? Father Moynihan’s inquisitiveness would have set him making some tacit inquiries, but Vulcan Street was a stronghold of people holding different religious views to his. Only this had caused him to abandon the project. But his mind remained full of the subject, and Aunt Brigid’s visit had shot it to the surface again. He got up from the desk. Half-past nine. Now he must go. From eight to half-past eight Father Moyni
han said his Office, then he had breakfast, unless he was saying the nine o’clock Mass. At half-past he started out on his usual round of visits. Each day he took a different street, as each Sunday of the month he took a different street for the collection. He pushed the chair to the wall, left the room, and stood for a moment in the vestry corridor, his finger to his chin, as though indulging in a rapid mental survey of the morning’s work. He went up to his bedroom and changed. He rang the bell, and stood waiting for the housekeeper. ‘Tell Father Heraghty I shall join him at lunch at half-past one.’ Then he went down to the vestry, picked up his hat and stick and went out. As he walked slowly down the gravel path that led to the road he paused to look at the desolate appearance that winter’s hand had given the garden. The trees were bare, the sparse, sourish winter grass looked bleak and uninviting. From the middle of this path Father Moynihan had a good survey of the Walk. He saw a tall man hurrying down it. He was carrying an attaché-case, and his big overcoat was buttoned up to the neck. The priest walked to the gate, turned for a moment to glance at the garden from the other side of the railings, then passed into the road. As he did so, the man with the attaché-case seemed to increase his pace. Then the sound of a motor came to his ears.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Father Moynihan, ‘the very man.’ He stepped quietly in front of the hurrying man. There was no doubt whatever in his mind. He completely blocked his path.
‘Ah, Mr Fury!’ he exclaimed with a jolly laugh. ‘Here you are at last!’ He laughed again. He had consolidated himself there. That half-hour’s meditation seemed to have fortified him. The very way in which he said ‘at last’, left no room for doubt. ‘Well!’ he said. ‘Well, Desmond, where are you hurrying to?’ He offered the man his hand, and the other replied by keeping his own in his pocket. ‘At least,’ thought Father Moynihan, ‘we know where we are.’ Desmond Fury, wont at one time in his life to raise his cap to a priest, now showed by a quick movement of the hand, and pulling his cap down tighter upon his head, that the raising of it to a priest was a courtesy in which he no longer indulged. Whilst he stared at the priest, two different expressions seemed to fight for a place upon his big face. He wanted to be bold, but he felt a little bewildered. The appearance was too sudden. Besides, he had never expected it. The result was an expression that revealed at once to Father Moynihan the man’s embarrassment. Desmond Fury shifted first one leg, then the other. He wanted to be off. He was in a great hurry. The obvious sang-froid of the priest only served to increase his desire to be off. Apart from that, the car, which must be Mr O’Hare’s, was tooting again. Round the corner of Ash Walk, and abutting on to the King’s Road, there stood a motor, a very old and dilapidated-looking affair, in which sat three men. Father Moynihan could hear its noisy engine quite distinctly. To Desmond it was an urgent summons, to the other merely a slight irritant. The priest looked Desmond up and down. Most extraordinary, that on this very morning when he had been studying that little problem, and reviewing in retrospect Miss Mangan’s visit, one of the people of the problem should now stand in front of him. Desmond Fury kept opening and shutting his hands, digging them into his pocket and pulling them out again. He reminded Father Moynihan of the great inn-keeper at Fermonteil whose name was Raoul. ‘Excuse me’ (the ‘Father’ had been left out). ‘Excuse me,’ Desmond said, ‘I’m in a hurry.’ Yes, he is in a hurry. He is very embarrassed, and the priest’s laughing eyes seemed to reply, ‘Yes, one can see that, but I, Father Moynihan, am not.’
‘Tell me,’ said the priest; he paused, looked away for a moment, as if beckoning a thought that had suddenly taken flight. ‘Do not be afraid. I am not going to ask you if you have been to your Easter duties this year, my good man. Oh no! I have enough sense to know just what kind of gentleman I am talking to.’ He smiled at Desmond, and placed his hand on his shoulder. ‘No. That is truly a matter for your own conscience. I do not consider myself your spiritual guide any longer. You are no child. You are a grown man. I have had too much experience of the world, Mr Fury.’ He laughed. These laughs irritated Desmond. He felt as if somebody were pricking him with a pin. He made a move, but Father Moynihan moved also, and the expression upon his face seemed to hold Desmond there, as if his two feet were rooted in Ash Walk. Desmond Fury thought, ‘This fellow intends to hold me up. What the hell does he want?’ He connected the priest’s sudden appearance with his mother. But he was wrong.
‘I’m going to Garton,’ he said quickly, in the manner of a person who simply must be off, whose whole life depends upon his immediate departure for Garton.
‘How is your wife?’ This question was asked coldly, as though the person had hated to ask the question. The smile had vanished.
‘Quite well,’ replied Desmond. ‘I don’t know what you really want, but can’t you see I have to go now?’ He moved forward, his hands seemed to sweep the air. The motor-horn was tooting madly. ‘I wish to say that I am in a hurry.’
‘I only wanted to ask you a question,’ said Father Moynihan. He laughed again. ‘Surely those spoliated people from the abyss can spare you a few minutes. I haven’t stopped you for a joke. Tell me, have you any sense of responsibility? And further, understand that your mother is not behind this. Your mother has enough to look after. You say you are going to Garton. What are you leaving behind?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Does your wife know?’
‘You leave that woman out of it,’ Desmond said rudely.
Father Moynihan felt that now the barriers were down.
‘Does your wife know?’ he asked again, in a casual, indifferent manner.
‘Of course she knows! What do you take me for? A fool? And anyhow, what business is it of yours?’ He pushed past the priest to one side.
‘Don’t be so surly,’ the priest said. He caught Desmond’s arm. ‘I hope, when the millennium comes, that you will instruct the saved in the principles that you lack. That is to say, courtesy and respect. I have no wish to pry into your affairs. I have something else to do. There are no two points upon which we, as men, could agree. I am not interested in your socialism, or your wife, or your home, or yourself. Having thus established my disinterestedness, may I repeat my question? Have you any sense of responsibility?’ He looked at Desmond’s large hands, now pulling at the pockets of his coat. There was another hoot from the motor. Father Moynihan turned his head in the direction of the sound. ‘Who is blowing that horn?’ he asked.
‘How inquisitive this fellow is!’ thought Desmond.
‘My friends are waiting for me,’ he replied. He would like to have shot out one of his long arms and pushed the priest to one side, but staring at the imperturbable figure only weakened his resolve, Father Moynihan could disarm him with a single glance. The priest said to himself, ‘This fellow is beside himself with rage.’ He began banging his walking-stick against his leg. Once the horn tooted, a veritable fusillade that seemed to say, ‘We are going … NOW.’ At the same time a man appeared round the corner, waving his hand. He had recognized Desmond Fury talking to the priest.
‘What is it you want to know?’ It was almost a growl that came from Desmond.
‘Nothing, beyond answering of my question,’ replied Father Moynihan. His imperturbability was utterly beyond Desmond Fury.
‘Then why hold up traffic?’ said Desmond. He had raised his voice. He had grown red in the face. ‘Coming!’ he shouted to the man at the bottom of the street.
‘Yes, of course I have. I have to be at Garton by noon,’ said Desmond. ‘Do you think I’m a fool?’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Father Moynihan, ‘except, of course, that people are talking.’
‘That’s enough!’ Desmond Fury shot up his big hand and flicked his fingers in the other’s face. ‘I don’t listen to tales.’ Then he ran down the street.
