by Paul Charles
* * *
Mrs Eimear Robinson lived the life of a wife and mother trying hard to get by, with little or no time (nor energy) to entertain the big thoughts of life, such as why are we here? Or even, why, how, and whether we’re to be taken from here. No, her concerns, 365 days of the year, were to do with ensuring her daughters, sixteen-year-old Julia and eighteen-year-old Jessica (named after Julia Roberts and Jessica Lange respectively, Eimear’s two favourite actresses – they’d have been called Al and Kevin should they have been boys), grew up to have the opportunities she’d never enjoyed. She’d also successfully planned to ensure she’d never have more than two children.
Mrs Robinson knew that her husband didn’t love her and she was almost certain she didn’t love him. She accepted that most likely both facts were related. She also realised their complicated situation had a lot to do with the fact that she discovered he’d cheated on her nearly twenty years ago, when she was pregnant with Jessica. She’d also discovered that ‘forgiving’ someone didn’t fully take into account the fact that when someone cheats on you, no matter how much you don’t want to entertain the thought, you are forever doomed to be waiting around for the next time. She often wondered if her husband worried about the possibility of her cheating on him, if only to get her own back. Yes, it was nearly twenty years and counting since Mr Robinson had cheated on Mrs Robinson, but ensuring her daughters did well meant, she believed, bringing them up in a secure, stable family environment. So her husband hadn’t been kicked out, hadn’t been given the cold shoulder, no, far from it in fact: he’d been borne another daughter by Eimear, and all so that they – the two daughters – would grow up enjoying life, well fed, properly clothed, sufficiently housed, genuinely loved, and content and secure in an apparently happy family.
Eimear Robinson was a brunette, but Starrett couldn’t figure out if she was a blonde hiding as a brunette or vice versa. He thought he knew what he meant by that, but when he ran the thought around his head a bit he wasn’t so sure. If she were a genuine brunette and she’d dyed her hair blonde, was there still a chance she was a brunette hiding behind being a blonde? Starrett thought so, but wasn’t sure it would stand up in court, or even if it would need to. She wore little make-up but what she did wear she used effectively. She’d an infectious smile and she engaged Starrett directly with her brown eyes. He thought that, most likely, Eimear Robinson had never flirted once in her entire life. She was slim, but not thin. Her hair was pulled back into a long pony-tail and try though he might, Starrett could not for the life of him see one dark root showing through. She was dressed straight from Dunnes and looked great in her around-the-house dark, tight-fitting slacks, all-white trainers and the collar of a white shirt or blouse showing over a dark blue, thick woollen jumper.
The Robinson’s house was a new-build, a detached one-and-a-half story bungalow, popular in rural Donegal. In certain areas, the planner, for some reason or another, would only grant planning permission for one-storey houses. Most people got around this, even during the building stage, by adding two, sometimes even three, bedrooms and a bathroom up in the roof space, and lighting them with a dormer window or two on the rear of the roof; that is to say, not visible to the road, or the planners should they ever go out for a wee trip to inspect or check their rulings. The house was outside Donegal Town, on the road to Ramelton, and was in a compound with three other similarly styled houses. The house was so new that Eimear still had her snag list stuck to the fridge door. Starrett noted they were down as far as item number 26 – ‘drawers getting snagged on rough wood of drawers’ – a lingerie hitch the carpenter would have to deal with, and they were not even halfway through their list of snags yet. But for all of that, Eimear Robinson had already created a wonderfully comfortable and homely house, and she invited Starrett and Packie to sit down at the pine table in the uncluttered dining area (which partnered up seamlessly with the functional and modern kitchen) while she made them coffee. She also produced a couple of generous hot slices of freshly baked apple pie (the produce of St Ernan’s, she claimed), garnished with a couple of scoops (each) of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream, which Starrett was convinced was so addictive, people should require a licence to sell it. The ice cream, in fact rendered him at a loss for words. As his eyes rolled in ecstasy, Sgt Packie Garvey started off the proceedings.
‘When was the last time you were up at St Ernan’s?’ he asked, as she milked their coffees.
‘You know, I still can’t believe it…’ Eimear Robinson replied, totally ignoring Packie’s question and seeming to grow tongue-tied with emotion. Her nostrils started to quiver, which was a sure sign to Starrett that tears would soon be galloping down the same pathway.
The St Ernan’s housekeeper was the first person who’d shed a tear for Father Matthew McKaye. Starrett just stared at her, assessing the impact of this fact.
Eimear grew aware of the inspector’s staring and he noticed her pick herself up and gather herself together.
‘Sorry,’ she started, ‘it was just the way you asked your question, you didn’t even mention the father but it brought the fact home to me that I’m never going to see him again.’
‘It’s okay, Eimear,’ Starrett whispered, ‘it’s okay to talk about it.’
‘No, I mean, yes, it’s funny in a way. I just got the call last night from Father O’Leary, saying I needn’t come up because sadly Father Matthew had passed. And then there was a bit on Highland Radio about it this morning, but, in a way it wasn’t until Packie spoke to me there that it became…real, and I truly realised he’d passed.’
‘I understand Father Matthew was close to you and your family?’ Starrett offered, moving his apple and delicious ice cream to one side as he no longer had the stomach for it.
‘Yes,’ she replied, through a large sigh, ‘he was a regular here. He’d join us quite a bit for food. The girls liked him; they even thought he was cool.’
She stopped talking and Starrett could tell that she’d been distracted with one of her own personal memories of the priest, a process that all who grieve must experience.
Starrett thought, for the first time, they were in a position where they might, just might, mind you, learn something important and real about Father Matthew. He just needed to find a way to get Eimear to continue talking naturally. Having Sgt Packie Garvey along side him, most certainly helped. Everyone was comfortable speaking to Packie; he was definitely a county treasure, if not a national one. Due to his exploits on the hurling field and his humble demeanour, everyone felt that they knew him already, and could talk to him as they would a family member or friend.
‘You know,’ she started back up again with renewed energy – she did tend to start her sentences in a louder voice than the one with which she completed them. ‘He was with us when we moved into this house. Here, with us on our first day. I hadn’t known him all that long at the time. We were due to flit on the Saturday, the first Saturday of this June, and I was getting into a bit of a panic. Gerry, my husband, wasn’t much help either. He’s an electrician – white appliances.’
‘The only thing I’ve ever leaned about dishwashers and dryers,’ Starrett admitted, ‘is that it’s always much better to close the door to said appliance from the outside.’
Garvey grinned largely. Eimear Robinson looked like she’d been caught unawares by Starrett’s attempt at humour, which had kind of been his point, to throw her from her comfort zone a wee bit. After a few seconds’ laugher she picked up her thread again.
‘We were running late on the flit. Gerry was pulling double shifts to help pay for the move. So that meant it was just me and my girls and my sister, Mary, painting and then washing and cleaning everything behind us as we went along. Father Matthew volunteered to help me and he didn’t have to volunteer twice. We roped him in, stuck a paintbrush in his hand and the five of us had a gas time. Ah jeez the craic was 90, all we’d have needed would have been Christy Moore in the corner of the room singing ‘Listonva
rna’ to us and it would have been perfection.’
‘Ye all did a great job,’ Starrett offered, admiring their handiwork.
‘Augh, I wanted it to be the business for my girls. It’s our house, don’t you see, well their house, and we had to struggle to change the mortgage from the last one to this. You know what it’s like in the current climate but I said to Gerry, I said, “Gerry, if we don’t break our backs and do this now we’ll regret it for the rest of our lives. If we don’t get this house now, we’ll never be able to get it or one like it.” Sure, once the property market takes off again, we’d never, ever have been able to put ourselves in a position to afford something like this. Gerry knew we needed to do this for the girls. Sure, they were in their late teens and still sharing a bedroom, but I’ll tell you this gentlemen, they never once complained. Not once. Can you believe that? Not once did my girls complain. So I took extra jobs. I was on four at one time. Now I’m down to three, ’cause the pressure is off us a wee bit now, and Gerry took all the extra shifts and overtime he could get and you know what? We made it work.’
‘Fair play to you,’ Starrett offered in admiration, seeing a lot of similarities between Maggie Keane and Eimear Robinson in their total commitment to their children.
‘Aye, thanks,’ she said through a smile, ‘and Father Matthew was here with us on our first day in our new house. He helped us move in and helped make it stress-free and great fun. There’s something gas, something very special about the first day in your new house, isn’t there? You want to run from room to room and just be in them all because they’re all ours, all our rooms. I said to the girls, I said, “Julia and Jessica, these are all our rooms, this is our new house. For the love of God make sure you enjoy it.” Since then Father Matthew was a regular visitor, he’d drop in for a chat or for dinner or Sunday lunch. And he’d always muck in.’
‘Wasn’t scared of rolling his sleeves up?’ Starrett offered, in encouragement.
‘Aye,’ Eimear said quietly, sadly. ‘He wasn’t like a priest at all, more like a good mate. We’d work away together at St Ernan’s, gossiping about everything under the sun. I’d talk to him about things I’d never talk to anyone else about. He was so understanding, so non-judgemental. He was always getting into trouble because when people came to him looking for advice he’d always say, you must do what you feel is right. You must listen to yourself not to others. Now, you should hear Bishop Freeman go absolutely beetroot when Father Matthew said something like that. I’d say to Father Matthew, “Father Matthew, you should be careful what you say around the bishop.”'
‘Huh,’ Starrett chuckled, ‘and what would Father Matthew say?’
‘He’d say, “Oh don’t worry about the bishop, he’s never going to excommunicate me.” And then he’d have a great old laugh, wouldn’t he.’
‘Did he ever explain what he meant by that?’ Starrett asked hopefully.
‘No he never did, Inspector.’
‘Have you any idea what he meant by it?’
‘I thought he meant that the bishop was okay and not a stickler for the rules, but I don’t know,’ Eimear said and stopped talking. She had a far-away look in her eyes.
‘I just remembered another thing that Father Matthew said, in light of what has happened, is very…’ she said, her sentence trailing off into silence.
‘What was it he said, Eimear?’ Starrett asked softly.
‘He’d say, everyone wants to go to Heaven but no one wants to die.’
‘Wow,’ Starrett said, without realising he was saying so.
Garvey crossed himself.
‘Did you know, when Father Matthew finished up here, he was going to the bishop’s Diocese?’ Starrett asked, ending the silence.
‘Yes, we did as it happens.’
‘How did he feel about that?’
‘Well, it seemed the more he got to know us the more he felt that maybe he’d like to try to stay around here, but that could just be me being a bit big-headed, you know.’
‘Was he happy in the priesthood?’
‘That’s not really for me to say,’ Eimear said, saying a lot.
‘No, sorry, yes,’ Starrett said, immediately trying to regain his ground, ‘I just wondered if he’d ever discussed with you…’
Starrett saw from the way the smile faded from her eyes that this wasn’t a good approach either.
‘Look Eimear,’ he started, ‘we believe someone took Father Matthew’s life–’
‘Oh my Go…’ she gasped, ‘I thought it was a natural passing. I said to my Gerry, I said, “Gerry, why Father Matthew? Why not some of the older priests?” I thought it was a tragedy he’s been called back so young. But then…’
‘But then?’ Starrett prompted.
‘Well I hate to bite the hand that feeds me but…Inspector, I find it difficult to support religion these days. All the suffering of those wee wains and then the Church trying to sweep it under the carpet and the state of the country and all…Oh jeez, you should hear my Gerry on the subject, don’t get him started.’
Starrett made a mental note to do exactly that.
‘So what I was going to say was,’ Starrett said, ‘I need to try and find out all about Father Matthew, all about his life, about things people would prefer we didn’t find out.’
Eimear Robinson turned white at this point. Her mouth opened in an involuntary ‘O’ and she politely raised her hand to cover it.
‘Are you okay?’ Starrett asked. Clearly she wasn’t, but it was an automatic reaction.
‘I…I, ah…’ she stuttered, ‘I think I’ve just realised the enormity of what you’ve just told me…you know, that someone maybe killed Father Matthew.’
‘Do you need to stop? We could come back?’ Starrett offered reluctantly.
‘No, no,’ she protested, ‘I want to help, it’s just…’
‘I know, it’s very difficult.’
‘Well, my girls are going to be very upset. Father Matthew was very good to them and they were always joking with each other. And then there’s my sister, Mary. But please go on, I’ll answer your questions as best I can.’
‘Well, really the main thing I’m trying to discover is this: Was anything troubling Father Matthew, was he in any kind of trouble?’
‘Well nothing definite, you know. Sometimes people look like they just need a bit of space and whereas my mum would always say, she’d say, “Come on in, sit yourself down and have a nice cup of tea and we’ll have a wee chat.” I’d just give them the space I thought they wanted.’
‘But was there anything specific?’
‘Well, Father Matthew was a great helper; he was more interested in helping others than asking for help himself. But sometimes you know – this could just be me reading something into something that wasn’t there – he did look like he was far away, somewhere else, deep in his thoughts.’
Starrett tried a different tack, ‘Did he get on okay with everyone at St Ernan’s?’
‘Yes, he did. He’d say they’re all different and they need to be treated differently. He really liked Father Robert O’Leary, he said he was always very helpful. God forgive me, Inspector, I hate to talk behind people’s backs, but he thought Father McIntyre should be running Apple or Amazon or something similar, that his ukulele playing and singing of Jim Reeves songs was all a cover and Father Matthew also thought that Father McIntyre was very ambitious; he thought Father O’Connell should maybe get married–’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m just saying, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m…God forgive me, I just hope it’s useful.’
‘Eimear, it’s all useful, even stuff you don’t think is useful could be useful to us if we manage to put it in the correct context,’ Starrett said, by way of explanation, ‘but can we go back to Father O’Connell for a moment?’
‘Yes,’ Eimear said and then offered through a grimace, ‘someone needs to teach Father O’Connell how to keep his rooms a bit tidier.’
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‘Yes, I suppose you get to see a side of all the priests that no one else does?’
‘Well yes, I suppose.’
‘You said that he should be married?’ Starrett asked, accepting that he’d most likely shut down that avenue of gossip, at least for the time being.
‘No, no,’ she replied and smiled gently, ‘I said that Father Matthew said he should get married.’
‘Right, good, so you did. Sorry about that. And what do you think he meant?’
‘He meant,’ she started and then corrected herself with, ‘I think he meant that as Father O’Connell has so many widows as friends, and he was always being taken out to lunch or dinner by one of them, that perhaps he should consider marrying one of them. I think he was joking but then again, maybe not really.’
‘Are all of his lady friends widows?’
‘What, do you mean are some of them currently married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well yes, as you’ve probably noticed from his girth, he does like to have a full diary for lunches.’
‘Okay, sorry I stopped you back there mid-flow; you were going to tell me what Father Matthew thought about everyone up at St Ernan’s?’
‘Yes…Father Casey and Father Clerkin are hardly around. They’re cousins I hear. Father Casey would be from the modern side of the family. They’re always off doing Father Dugan’s bidding.
'Father Dugan, I don’t think Father Matthew had ever spoken to him. He’s a bit of a gas though. He’s meant to be this old recluse with his hair down to his knees, but he’s always chatting away to me when I’m cleaning his rooms and for an old man he’s very well preserved and clean and neat and tidy as a person, even though you couldn’t swing a cat in his room with all his books and all his files, but he knows exactly where everything is and doesn’t want anything tidied up or moved. I said to him, “Father Dugan,” I said, “you should have all your books and papers filed away properly,” and he said to me, he said, “Eimear, sure why would I want to do that. I have the best filing system in the world.” I said, as I looked around his room, I said, “Really?” And he said, “Really, Fathers Casey and Clerkin know exactly where every last bit of paper is.” And then he’d laugh away to himself as he shuffled some papers around or pretended to write.’
