by Phelan, Tom;
His name’s in a rock at Menin Gate—Michael Madden, Irish Furzaleers. Never found. But he was my Mick, and that’s his and no one can take it. It’s Mick’s. Mick’s. Mick’s.
The minutes of this inquest will show that the witness appears to be agitated, and that the coroner is doubtful concerning the ability of this witness to remember the events in question. However, in the hope that the witness will settle down, the coroner will continue to question her. Missus Madden, would you please look over here at me?
Everyone will know now, Father, but no differ, the money’s all gone, and it can never be took again. He took it—the winnings on the Protestant horse race, and I didn’t tell anyone, because everyone . . . Mister Morgan-of-the-shop told Eddie, and Eddie told Bridie, and Bridie told Father Coughlin. But Father Coughlin took the winnings, and now it’s all gone. I knew someone would take it. But not Mick’s pension. Not Mick’s.
How much were the winnings, Missus Madden?
He wanted me to give him a bit of Mick’s pension every month, too, Father, but I said, that’s Mick’s. That’s Mick’s, I had to shout at him. That’s Mick’s. Nobody’s getting Mick’s, not even God. It’s Mick’s.
Missus Madden, can you remember the last time you saw Father Coughlin?
He kept after me at Bridie’s for the winnings with the tea and biscuits. Good teapot. Asking and asking and asking and never stopping, but I stopped him at Mick’s pension. That’s Mick’s I told him, and not even God can have that.
Did Father Coughlin go to your house one night in August, Missus Madden?
He wouldn’t go home till I gave him the winnings, Father, and then he wanted a bit of Mick’s pension. That’s Mick’s. That’s Mick’s. My name would be carved into a rock in India, and Mick’s name carved in Menin Gate. They never found him.
How much did you give him, Missus Madden?
The winnings, Father. One blue tenner and a brown fiver, and another tenner I had under a statue of Saint Anthony so there’d always be money in the house, so he’d stop about Mick’s pension, and he stuck it in his pocket like it was a bit of a rag. I have my bag, and my handkerchief, I have Mafeking.
Missus Madden, can you remember what time it was when Father Coughlin left your house?
I gave him the winnings and the tenner. The winnings and the tenner. The clock is fast so I’m not late for getting to Bridie’s. I said that’s Mick’s and he wouldn’t listen. It’s Mick’s, I had to shout. It’s Mick’s.
Please lift up your head, Missus Madden, so we can all hear you. Can you tell us what time it was when he left your house?
He wouldn’t do but take Mick away from me, Father, asking me to give him a bit of the pension Mick died getting. I’d get my name carved in a rock in India, and Mick’s name in a rock in the Menin Gate.
Did Father Coughlin leave your house before your clock struck twelve?
That day Mick died, I never wound the striker, just the part that makes the hands go by. My Mick and never again was my name Swers—. . . I won’t say it. I won’t. I won’t. It was terrible the way they laughed in the convent yard.
After Father Coughlin left your house, when was the next time you saw him?
He fell and broke his head, Father, and God got him for trying to take Mick’s pension. He’s dead. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad, and I don’t care if that’s bad. My Mick. He was my Mick. My Mick and no one else’s. He was mine.
Did you ever see Father Coughlin again after he left your house with the winnings?
I did, Father.
Where did you see him, Missus Madden?
In the settle bed in the parlor, Father.
Was Father Coughlin alive when you saw him in the settle bed in the parlor?
He was dead with a patch on his eye, Father. He was not a holy priest like they’re supposed to be. Blew up in Mafeking.
When was the last time you saw Father Coughlin when he was alive?
I went to bed when it struck twelve in Gohen. He was in the settle bed when I saw him, Father. The Protestants. The Protestants. I have my purse and my handkerchief. What’s so funny? What’s so funny?
Thank you, Missus Madden for coming here today. Missus Moore you may now return the twenty-five pounds to Missus Madden. I am sorry Missus Madden that we had to keep the money as evidence for a while.
WITNESS: God bless you, Father, God bless you. Mick will God bless you too.
Now, Missus Moore, please show Missus Madden out of the Woodwork Room. The next witness will be Mister Timothy Murphy.
33
In the Sunroom
In which the Howards and Patrick Bracken agree that obsessiveness is a positive human trait.
“THE MADNESSES THAT CAN take over our lives!” David Samuel Howard said. “Gathering money from the poor of Gohen to support a school in India! What was the man thinking? There must be a weakness in our brains that allows one idea to become all consuming, that dominates us, enslaves us. Yes, that’s the word: enslaves us.”
“But maybe that’s an important weakness,” Patrick said. “Maybe obsessiveness is like a spearhead that benefits the entire herd. Take one obsessed person—say James Watt with steam, and the Industrial Revolution follows for the rest of us.”
“Or your man with hydrophobia, Louis Pasteur,” Elsie said, “or the German with aspirin; or Galileo and his telescope. Imagine all the people who stood around telling them they were mad, equating obsessiveness with a mental illness.”
Mister Howard said, “I suppose it has good and bad sides, creative and destructive or just plain nonsensical. I think Father Coughlin was well-intentioned but unable to see that the poor of Gohen couldn’t support his obsession.”
“He was blind to the poverty of the people he was begging from.”
“I know someone who is obsessive about privileged information,” Elsie said.
“I know someone who is obsessed with cracking secrets,” Sam said.
“I know someone who, when he was a child, wondered why all the adults were obsessed with telling lies about how Coughlin and Gorman died,” Patrick said.
“Patrick! What—?”
“I have the floor, Else, if you please,” Sam said. “You will have to rein in your impatience. And I, too, will patiently wait for Patrick to explain himself. There’s only one more witness, and he had nothing to add at all. He just wanted to defend his job performance. And by the way, Patrick, Father Jarlath Coughlin’s religious order wrote to me and demanded the return of the Martyr’s money to their coffers because it was in the possession of Coughlin when he died.”
“And?” Patrick asked.
“In thinly disguised polite language I told them to fuck off.”
34
Witness: Mister Murphy
1951
In which Mister Murphy avows that he who performs the most menial tasks in society has pride in his work.
SPUD MURPHY, ANXIOUS for the spotlight as much as to defend his reputation as the punctual ringer of the church bell, strode toward the witness stand. Every step taken was accompanied by the sound of water in his Wellingtons squelching from heel to toe and back again. It appeared he was already in the act of shaping his body to the contours of the witness chair when he suddenly turned and went directly to the Coroner’s table. He leaned across to Mister Howard, and the people in the room heard his sibilations, but no one heard what he said. All the straining ears were suddenly ambushed by the stern and commanding voice of the Coroner: “Either sit in the witness chair, Mister Murphy, or go back to your seat. This is not the place for whispers.”
“I’ve often wondered why it is that the village idiot is always in the wrong places at all the wrong times,” Mister Howard said that night in response to his wife’s enquiry about Spud Murphy’s whispering.
“That’s what makes them village idiots,” Missus Howard said. “But Spud Murphy isn’t a total idiot. . . .” She trailed off because she realized her husband wasn’t looking for answers; he was cogitating aloud.
She would have to wait impatiently to find out what Spud had whispered in her husband’s ear.
After a long discourse on the community’s obligation toward an idiot in its midst, the Coroner stretched out along the sofa and rested his head in his wife’s lap. “He wanted to know if he could leave his cap on like the Coughlin man. And the breath of him! It was like I was suddenly swamped in a raging river of rotten eggs.”
“Suddenly swamped in a raging river of rotten eggs!” his wife repeated, and she stroked his hair.
“Suddenly swamped,” Mister Howard said, and he pushed the back of his head down into his wife’s lap.
“And did he make any more of a fuss about the cap?”
“No. I think in his own idiotic way he was trying to make a point, like a greedy child ever vigilant in case a sibling gets more than he gets.”
“Ever vigilant,” Missus Howard said, and she ran a finger around the outer rim of her husband’s ear.
“Why are you mocking me?”
“I’m not. The blood must seep into some remote part of your brain when you lie down. You always sound a little poetic when you’re on your back.”
“A little poetic?”
“Aye, just like yer man Shakespeare.”
“Me and Billy,” Mister Howard said. “The bell ringer didn’t take off his cap by taking it by the peak and lifting it off. His hand went up one side of his face and suddenly the cap disappeared. It must have been a trick he had practiced. His pate as white as something you’d find under a rock with his couple of clinging wisps stuck on with sweat.”
“Clinging wisps!”
“Do you want to know how you sound when you’re lying on your back?” Mister Howard asked his wife.
CORONER: Please state your name, occupation and address.
WITNESS: Me name is Timotty Murphy. I ring de bell in de church an’ draw horseshite fram de Blennerhasset stud to de convent in me assencart. I live in Tile Town, Gohen, an’ I want everwan to know—
Mister Murphy, only answer the questions I ask.
Dat hure, de Son of Limpen Lalor, said I’m always late—
Mister Murphy! Please look at me, and remain looking at me until I have finished speaking to—
I haven’t bin late wid de seven clock Angelus since dat day me ass started foalen just as I was getten up on me bike to—
Mister Murphy!
Dat’s all I have ta say, an dat was de last foal me ass had, an’ dat was six years ago.
Mister Murphy!
An ya can stick dat up yer arse, Son of Limpen Lalor, an’ smoke it, ya hure. Yer up aten daltar rails ever Sunday an’ yer tellen lies about me at de same time. Ya hure.
35
In the Sunroom
In which Sam Howard claims he is being cross-examined by Patrick Bracken and Elsie.
“YOU LOST CONTROL of the Woodwork Room to Murphy,” Elsie said.
“I did,” Sam agreed, “and I lost it until Murphy gave it back to me.”
Patrick asked, “As Coroner you ruled that Father Coughlin’s death was the result of an accident—you accepted the findings of the jury. But, as a private resident of Gohen did you believe what you heard in the Woodwork Room?”
“Patrick,” Sam said, and he paused to choose the proper clothing for his thoughts. “In the matter of Father Coughlin’s death, there is only one conclusion—the official one. What I, as an individual, or anyone else believes concerning the matter is not germane. And as the coroner in the case, it would be unconscionable of me to indicate in any way that I did not believe the jury’s finding was correct.”
Silence dropped into the sunroom and lingered. Patrick looked over at Elsie, and she answered him by raising her eyebrows. She inclined her head to her husband and slowly lowered the lid of her right eye.
“Sam, did you know Deirdre Hyland?” Patrick asked.
“Patrick,” Mister Howard said, “you are treading into the area of client-solicitor privilege where you have no right to—”
Missus Howard impatiently snatched the conversation away from her husband. “Deirdre Hyland was the Catholic with the accent,” she said. “And yes, I knew Deirdre Hyland, Patrick. What did you want to know?”
“Now, Else,” Sam said.
“Now yourself, Sam,” Elsie said. “You just sit there and listen. As they say in American pictures, Patrick, ‘Shoot!’ Ask me anything.”
“Did you know that Deirdre Hyland was a friend of Kevin Lalor’s for a while?” Patrick asked.
“Of course we did. Everyone in Gohen, Catholic and Protestant, were holding their breaths waiting for the banns to be read.”
“Did you ever hear what happened, why they didn’t get married?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I believe Sam and I were the first to know she had dumped the Civil Servant.”
“Now, Else.”
“Now yourself, Sam. You take care of your conscience, and I’ll take care of mine. Deirdre Hyland came to this house on the day before the Coughlin inquest and demanded that she be allowed to take the witness stand.”
“Else!” Sam said, as if he were telling a cat to get off the furniture—had told it a thousand times before, and knew the cat would ignore him.
Elsie continued, “Deirdre Hyland said in my presence in this house that Father Coughlin’s death had not been an accident at all. That’s why she wanted to be a witness. She said that Eddie-the-cap had killed his brother-the-priest by knocking him off his bike with a rope tied across the road.”
Mister Howard creaked his chair urgently. “No, Else!” he sternly said. “No, Else. Let me answer Patrick’s questions. He didn’t come to hear you clucking in your gossipy way.”
“Clucking! Well, excuse me, mister-who-loves-his-bit-of-gossip-like-anyone-else! Patrick, my husband loves to listen to gossip, but he never repeats it. Sometimes he knows stuff I’ve been dying to hear for weeks.”
Sam rolled on over his wife’s sarcasm. “Deirdre Hyland never said that anyone killed anyone. I cut her off and told her I didn’t want to hear what she had to say.”
“I know you cut her off, Sam,” Elsie said, “but not before she said, Eddie Coughlin killed his brother—”
“That’s not what she said, Else, and you know it. I shut her up the second she said ‘Eddie Coughlin killed his—.”
“But she was going to say—”
“It doesn’t matter what she was going to say, Else. The thing—”
“Even though she didn’t say it, Sam, you know and I know that she was going to say that Eddie Coughlin killed his—”
“I never heard her saying that Eddie Coughlin killed his brother, and neither did you.”
“For Christ’s sake, Sam! Look at the context. She was talking about Father Coughlin’s death, and her next sentence was, ‘Eddie Coughlin killed his . . .’ She wasn’t going to say Eddie Coughlin killed his chickens, because she wasn’t talking about chickens; she was talking about Father Coughlin.” Elsie slapped her thighs in exasperation.
Sam Howard sighed and sat back in his chair. “I am not conceding the point to you, Else. We did not hear what she didn’t say. And she certainly never mentioned anything in this house about a rope across Sally Hill. That was something you heard in the town later on.”
Missus Howard seemed to have tired of the point, waved her husband’s legalistic brain away with the back of her hand. She turned to Patrick. “Imagine, the only way Eddie-the-cap believed he could get the Martyr’s money back was to ambush his brother in the dark. He could not approach Jarlath-the-priest on the subject, because of Jarlath’s haughty and dismissive ways, and in his isolated way of thinking, Eddie was unable to come up with a strategy other than the rope in the dark.”
“It would appear that Jarlath was beyond hearing anything his siblings had to offer,” Patrick said.
As if his attention had been absent from this brief conversation between Elsie and Patrick, Sam said, “Deirdre Hyland! She was a self-righteous woman. Do you know what D. H. Lawrence
said about self-righteous women, Patrick?”
Missus Howard did not give her husband time to quote his quote. She quoted it herself in the tired voice a prisoner uses to tell his interrogator his story for the fortieth time.
“‘The self-righteous woman in her martyrdom is a terrible thing to behold, but every self-righteous woman ought to be martyred.’ Sam says that to me every time he thinks I’m being self-righteous.”
“That’s why she knows it by heart,” Mister Howard said.
“He says it when he knows I’m right and he’s wrong and won’t admit it. There’s nothing as self-righteous and as sure of his place in the universe as a man in a uniform, be he judge or a coroner,” Missus Howard said dismissively.
Mister Howard would not be dismissed. “Self-righteousness in anyone else is objectivity in a coroner,” he said without any trace of irony. “Deirdre Hyland was so self-righteous that she never met the man who was perfect enough for her. She remained unmarried all her life and was found dead in her own bed after not being missed for a week.” Sam leaned forward in his chair. “Since Else is inclined to color the facts, I will tell you about Deirdre Hyland coming to see me. She wouldn’t come in when I asked her. She wanted to speak to me outside.”
“No, Sam. I told you this before,” Else said as if addressing a refractive child. “That was Eddie Coughlin-with-the-cap and the mange. Deirdre Hyland came into the house, and I gave her tea. And that accent! She sounded like she was enduring an itch in a place she couldn’t scratch in company. She held her little finger out when she lifted her cup.”
“You’re right, Else,” the husband conceded. “I remember the little finger too. And it was the only time you ever used that tea set—your grandmother’s wedding present, with all those fat Japanese men in their bathrobes in red and gold and black.”
“No one could drink out of those cups without spilling the tea. They have six sides.”
“Hexagons, and that’s the only reason why Else gave her tea in the first place, Patrick.”
