2004 - Dandelion Soup

by Babs Horton

  Nancy Carmichael, baker of cakes for priests, cleaner of the church, flower arranger, pillar of the Orphans Society detested the Black Jew and everything he stood for, even if she didn’t know quite what it was he did stand for; it was bound to be something unpleasant. The very thought of the filthy old devil ogling her thighs filled her with a mixture of emotions: disgust and something else, something she couldn’t quite fathom.

  The Black Jew slowed his step, lifted his hat in her direction and tilted his head in a gesture of friendliness.

  “Good morning, Miss Carmichael.”

  Nancy Carmichael glared at him, the pupils of her pale-blue eyes dilating, and then she dipped her head into the wind as though she were a human battering ram. She wouldn’t have any truck with the likes of him. He wasn’t safe to be let out and about amongst god-fearing people.

  Father Daley had taken a wrong turn and he cursed himself for his stupidity. How easy was it to get lost in a one street village? He should, he realized too late, have carried along the lane that led out of the village towards the station and taken a right turn, but instead he’d turned into the alley between the houses on Clancy Street.

  At the end of the alley he came to two large iron gates. A peeling sign bore the word PRIVATE. Behind the gates there was a view of an imposing old house, run down and in need of a lick of paint but nevertheless still rather splendid. This must be the house where the man the villagers of Ballygurry called the Black Jew lived.

  It would take him ages to walk back down the lane and according to his watch he was already ten minutes late for his first meeting of the St Joseph’s Orphanage Committee. Over to his right above the trees he could see smoke rising from a large red-brick chimney. If his sense of direction proved right for once that must be the orphanage. It wouldn’t do any harm if he went in through the gates and cut across the overgrown lawns; there was bound to be a wall or fence he could climb and if he found his way through he would only have to cross the road and it should bring him to St Joseph’s.

  He slipped in’ through the gates and stepped warily across the gravel drive. There was no sign of anyone in the garden so he made his way quickly across the lawn. At least there hadn’t been any Beware of the Dog signs.

  Sure enough at the far side of the garden was a crumbling wall covered in ivy. He took a leap at the wall, got one leg over and was about to drop down on to the other side when he heard a scream. The blood-curdling eerie scream of a child that made the hairs on his neck bristle and his stomach turn over.

  He looked back at the house. Everything was still. There was no sign of anyone. It must have been a hawk or his imagination running away with itself, he’d been very jumpy of late.

  He dropped down on to the other side of the wall and began to run through the dark woods like a fearful child.

  Michael Leary was furious, and as he faced Sister Veronica across the table his face was white and a rapid pulse beat in his neck. Behind his thick-lensed spectacles his eyes were bright with anger. Sister Veronica stared coolly back at him, the trace of a contemptuous smile on her lips.

  “Has the boy no living relatives?”

  “None,” said Sister Veronica. “His mother died in Dublin and, er, I’m afraid he has no father.”

  Michael Leary laughed.

  “Now that would be a miracle indeed, Sister, if the boy has no father. As adults we’d both agree that apart from the Immaculate Conception we have all been brought into this world as a result of our biological parents being involved in a double act, would we not?”

  Sister Veronica glared at Michael Leary. How dare he speak to her like that? Just who did he think he was, not five minutes in the job and wanting to call the shots?

  “Mr Leary, I think you know as well as I that Padraig O’Mally has a birth certificate that omits to name his father and as such he is presumed to be an orphan and is under the care of the church.”

  “So the boy is illegitimate, so let’s beat him about the head with a stick, make him pay for his mother’s wanton ways, is that it?”

  “I think, Mr Leary, that it is high time you left.”

  Michael Leary stood up and leaned on the table, his knuckles were white, his voice quiet, and the anger in the air between the two of them palpable.

  “I came here today to ask permission for the brightest boy and the most talented artist I have ever had the good fortune to teach to take an examination for one of the best schools in the country. In your infinite wisdom you intend to deny him this opportunity because the school is not Catholic. Well, Sister, go ahead, let’s make sure that the boy knows his place, doesn’t get too big for his orphanage boots. I suggest, Sister Veronica, that you examine the dark recesses of your soul because in my book what you are doing is just plain evil.”

  “Mr Leary, I did not ask you here today to discuss Padraig O’Mally but merely to let me have the name of the child who has excelled in school so far this year.”

  Michael Leary angrily tossed a brown envelope on to the desk, turned on his heel and left the room, and almost fell oyer a thin-faced nun who had her ear glued to the keyhole.

  When Father Daley turned into the drive of St Joseph’s he was red faced and breathless. He hurried along the drive with a sinking heart. He hated committees and meetings and he was already nearly twenty minutes late.

  He looked up at the orphanage building and his heart sank even further. It was like a building from the pages of a Victorian novel, more like a prison than a home for small parentless kids.

  The windows were uncurtained arrow slits. The brown paintwork was blistered and peeling. The red-brick walls were cracked and weeds grew within the fissures and the drainpipes were coated with layers of rust.

  St Joseph’s reminded him of his Catholic prep school in London, where he had spent several interminable, miserable years. It had the same air of melancholy and dismal dilapidation. The institutional smells of cold cabbage and disinfectant pervaded the air and mingled with the whiff of old Wellingtons and the inevitable beeswax polish.

  Father Daley stepped nervously up to the front door, took a deep breath and tugged the bell pull. Inside the building a bell clanged dolefully.

  The door opened slowly and revealed a small nun, her wiry body swamped by a grey habit that was at least three sizes too big for her. She had a long thin pinched face with the stamp of medieval asceticism etched into her features. She nodded grimly at Father Daley without any trace of welcome or good humour. He felt like a small, frightened schoolboy arriving in class without his homework, his socks slipped down miserably into his shoes and a blanket of gloom settling on his soul.

  “Good afternoon, Sister. I must apologize for my lateness. I got rather lost on the way.”

  The nun ignored him, turned swiftly on her heel and, with a pale hooked finger that reminded him of the worm in a Tequila bottle, beckoned him to follow her.

  He chided himself for his uncharitable thoughts. She was probably not allowed to speak because she was under the rule of silence. He suppressed a smile. Or perhaps she was just a miserable old cow, and he decided from the set of her rigid shoulders that it was the latter. Dear God, fancy one of the poor orphans waking from a nightmare and seeing that ugly mug bending down over them!

  He felt the urge to turn round, run back down the gloomy corridor, out of the door, away down the crunching gravel drive. He wasn’t brave enough and instead he followed the nun meekly along the green tiled hallway. His footsteps sounded overloud and his breath came out in clouds of huffy steam in the chilly air.

  The nun ground to a squeaky halt outside a wood-panelled door that bore a name on a highly polished brass plate. SISTER VERONICA. PRINCIPAL.

  The stone-faced nun knocked fiercely on the door with her tiny knuckles and Father Daley winced at the sound of fragile bone against oak The knock was answered immediately by a sharp, irritated voice.

  Father Daley was ushered brusquely into the room. The nun turned on her heel and disappeared back into the shadowy
hallway.

  Sister Veronica was a thickset woman of indeterminate age, somewhere, he guessed, between forty and sixty. She rose from her seat as he entered. Dear God in heaven! She was a woman of gargantuan proportions. Suffering angels!

  She must have been nearly six and a half feet tall. Beneath her habit her arm muscles rippled powerfully and the bosom on her was a grey mantelpiece that could have housed a carriage clock and a set of ornaments. She had a large red bulbous nose that separated two eerily grey-brown eyes, a wide humourless mouth and a strong square jaw. On one of her cheeks there was a mole that sprouted a clutch of fierce black hairs.

  Father Daley shivered. It was even colder inside Sister Veronica’s study than in the hallway, even though a small coal fire burned lackadaisically in the grate. A low watt bulb burned, giving off a weak light that coated the room in a dismal luminescence. Father Daley could just make out three other figures sitting round a large bare table.

  Sister Veronica nodded to him to take a seat. Father Daley sat at the far side of the table next to an enormous bookcase lined with religious tomes. He screwed up his eyes and looked round the table. That was Miss Carmichael opposite him next to Sister Amazon. He’d already met Miss Carmichael at mass. She was a rather intense woman, over pious and pernickety, forever rearranging the flowers and dusting the pews when they didn’t need dusting. She smelled faintly of eau de cologne laced with brandy. Was that Donahue who ran the village bar sitting next to her? It was indeed, and the man was looking acutely uncomfortable, his battered face scrubbed and shining, wearing a tight navy double-breasted suit. His enormous red neck was squeezed into a white starched collar a size too small. He smelled of shaving soap, fresh sweat and an overdose of Brylcreem. Next to Donahue was a small dismal-looking woman with a sharp pinched nose and lips that moved without making a noise. He had been introduced to her at mass but couldn’t remember her name. Miss Shrew or something like that.

  “Now that you’re finally here, Father Daley, shall we make a start? Miss Carmichael, I believe, is going to discuss the organization of the Summer Fair.”

  Father Daley glanced across at Donahue, who looked as though he was badly in need of a stiff drink.

  Miss Carmichael proceeded to give a long-winded breathy talk on who would be running the white elephant stall, who had pledged cake and bun donations, followed by a seemingly interminable list of those ladies willing to assist Father Daley with the coconut shy. The bric-a-brac collection was going well. The sales of raffle tickets were a little slow but the running total on the sale of tickets in aid of black babies was looking encouraging.

  Father Daley glanced again at Donahue and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a grin. Donahue was almost asleep, his chin resting on his chest, his breathing heavy.

  The next to speak was Miss Thin Nose, who talked in a high-pitched squeak about a letter that had been sent by the Bishop about a wonderful opportunity that would be offered to some of the orphans: a brave new initiative to give them a new life in the colonies. Australia to be precise. It was hoped that all the older children of St Joseph’s would soon make the journey.

  Father Daley stifled a yawn. His mind began to wander. He remembered a geography textbook at school about Australia. It had pictures of hopping kangaroos with cute little babies in their pouches and wide-eyed koala bears clinging to tree trunks, chewing contentedly on eucalyptus leaves. There were pictures of boomerangs and wide-jawed men wearing dungarees and hats with dangling corks on string. There were hot orange suns and yellow sandy beaches.

  He was woken from his pleasant reverie by a loud and pointed cough. He looked up and was caught in the glare of Sister Veronica’s icy eyes.

  “As I was saying, Father, the annual pilgrimage to Lourdes takes place each year, but I expect Father Behenna explained all about it to you.”

  Father Daley nodded and panicked. Father Behenna, his predecessor, God bless him, had barely been able to string a sentence together. He had been sloshed for almost the whole of the time they had spent together.

  “I’ll refresh your memory, Father. Each year we plan a pilgrimage to Lourdes; the trip is open to any residents of Ballygurry who wish to go, although usually it is a small, select party. Miss Carmichael is, of course, a regular, as is Miss Drew. Mr Donahue is unable to go because of business commitments.”

  Donahue nodded and immediately conjured up a sorrowful expression that made Father Daley want to laugh out loud. He’d bet Donahue would rather drink rancid bull’s piss than go on a trip to Lourdes with a priest and a few poker-faced spinsters who had taken the pledge.

  “We always have the most wonderful time, Father, although the food isn’t always quite, well, what we’re used to. Miss Drew and I always take a few provisions with us. Some tins of corned beef, Spam and sardines. Just to keep body and soul together you understand.”

  Donahue snorted and all eyes were turned towards him.

  “I had an aunt once from Dublin. She went to Lourdes and was cured of her ingrowing toenails, but she ate some of the food over there and was taken bad. She’s never been right since. In fact, she’s dead now. Took the lining off her stomach. The food was disgusting. A pile of muck and the meat half raw, she said. Her guts were never the same again, God bless her soul. And she said there was no butter to go with the bread. Imagine dry bread! And the lavs, beg pardon, Sister, the toilets, well they were just holes in the ground. One pull of the flush and she was up to her knees in, well, you know. Jesus, them foreigners still live in the Dark Ages.”

  Miss Carmichael coughed and Miss Thin Nose sniffed and twitched next to her. Sister Veronica glared at Donahue.

  “Last year, Father, there were six on the trip including Father Behenna. Father Behenna will have already made and paid for all the bookings for this year and I’m sure Miss Carmichael and Miss Drew will run through with you anything that you need to know.”

  Father Daley’s heart sank.

  “And now, time is pressing on and we need to announce the lucky child who has been selected to accompany you to Lourdes.”

  Father Daley watched Sister Veronica with interest as she picked up an envelope from her desk, slit it open with a paper knife and took out a piece of paper.

  “Perhaps Father Behenna forgot to explain to you, Father Daley, but every year a child from the school is selected to make the trip. The child chosen is the one who has accumulated the most gold stars for progress at their school work and in sport.”

  As she looked down at the piece of paper her face grew rigid with irritation; her mouth set into a thin vexed line while in her neck a pulse beat rapidly.

  Sister Veronica cleared her throat with a sound like wet cement being shovelled.

  “This year Padraig O’Mally has been chosen.”

  Donahue started in surprise and stared at Sister Veronica as if she had uttered a string of filthy words.

  Nancy Carmichael sat bolt upright in her chair.

  Miss Thin Nose Drew gasped.

  “Padraig O’Mally!” they chorused.

  “Padraig O’Mally indeed,” said Sister Veronica, and her voice was like an easterly wind off an icy sea.

  Donahue snorted.

  “O’Mally,” he said. “Isn’t he the little bas – isn’t he the one who set fire to Siobhan Hanlon’s first Holy Communion dress with a magnifying glass?”

  Sister Veronica nodded curdy and visibly stiffened, the enormous muscles of her arms rippled powerfully beneath her habit.

  “Is he the same boy who interfered with the harvest supper drinks?” asked Miss Carmichael in a whisper.

  “The very same. But it seems that Padraig has come out undisputedly at the top of his class. Indeed Mr Leary was asking me only this afternoon if it would be possible for him to take the examination for the Abbey School.”

  “But, Sister, the Abbey School is not a Catholic school,” said Miss Carmichael in a scandalized voice.

  “Quite so, Miss Carmichael. It seems that our erudite schoolmaster, Mr Leary, feels t
hat education is more important than the keeping of our faith. Of course permission has most definitely not been granted. I have already told Mr Leary so this very afternoon.”

  Father Daley cleared his throat.

  “Is he a very bright boy, this Padraig?”

  “The brightest boy ever to pass through the school here according to Mr Leary, but as we all know, Father, intelligence isn’t everything. Education may buy you a loaf of bread, but religion allows you to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  Father Daley lowered his eyes and said nothing.

  Suddenly Miss Drew leaped to her feet and began to screech like a madwoman.

  “What the hell!” Donahue was roused from his doze.

  “A mouse!” wailed Miss Carmichael. “It was sitting in Miss Drew’s lap as bold as brass!”

  “Kill it!” shrieked Miss Drew.

  Sister Veronica rose from her chair, picked up a fire iron, brandished it menacingly and began to stalk the room.

  “It’s only a little mouse, for heaven’s sake, what harm will it do?” asked Father Daley.

  The three women stared at him as though he were a halfwit He made his decision. He was going to get to the mouse before Sister Veronica did.

  While Sister Veronica jabbed about under the table with the poker he caught sight of the little creature. It was halfway up the curtains and clearly in a state of abject terror.

  Father Daley leaped to his feet, pushed past Sister Veronica, took hold of the curtain and flicked it. As he did so he offered up a prayer. The terrified mouse flew through the air and landed in the middle of the table. Miss Drew continued to screech like a banshee and Miss Carmichael slumped into her chair in a fit of the vapours.