by Babs Horton
Father Daley lunged at the mouse but it fled over the top of the table, slithered over the edge and hit the floor running. Father Daley got down on his hands and knees and followed it. The mouse scurried away through a crack into the cupboard beneath a large bookcase. Father Daley, panting now, opened the door and almost screamed out in alarm.
He stared in amazement at the sight before him. At the back of the cupboard an ancient wrinkle-faced nun and a small pale-faced boy sat huddled together. Father Daley gazed in astonishment. The boy looked terrified out of his wits. The nun merely grinned at Father Daley, winked and held a finger to her lips. The boy was holding the quivering mouse in his cupped hands.
“What is it, Father?”said Sister Veronica.
She was close behind him, her shadow a cold cloud across his shoulders.
The boy’s eyes widened with fear.
“Please, Father don’t kill it,” the boy mouthed.
The boy handed him the mouse.
“No one panic now. I have it,” Father Daley called over his shoulder.
Swiftly he closed the cupboard door on the boy and the nun, edged past Sister Veronica without looking at her, hurried from the room and away down the corridor, the small mouse trembling in his hands. He opened the front door and went out into the gardens. He could feel the frantic heartbeat of the mouse and also his own. Dear God in heaven, what sort of a lunatic place had he come to?
He stooped and put the mouse down on the lawn. It glanced up at him and then escaped into the long grass. He hoped that by now Padraig O’Mally and the queer little nun had made their escape too. He knew without a doubt that the boy was Padraig O’Mally. He liked the look and the sound of the boy. At least he’d liven up the trip to Lourdes a bit.
Solly Benjamin replaced his hat and smiled to himself and thought that Miss Nancy Carmichael would be quite a good-looking woman if she occasionally took the trouble to smile. Mind you, those drawers she was wearing were out of the ark! Another big puff of wind whistling up the legs of those gargantuan things and she might take off! He turned up the Astrakhan collar of his coat against the cold and walked briskly on down Clancy Street towards home.
When Solly arrived back at Nirvana House, for the first time in years he was filled with a feeling of hope. He was surprised to see the front gates ajar. He opened the front door and called out cheerfully. There was no answer. She must be still asleep. He climbed the stairs and peered nervously round the bedroom door.
The bed was empty and the girl was gone. Perhaps it was she who had left the gate open. Maybe when she’d woken she’d realized that she’d arrived at the wrong house, let herself out and was at this very moment on her way to St Joseph’s.
He went back down the stairs and into the kitchen. The brown suitcase was gone too. He sat down at the table and closed his eyes. He realized with a shock that he was disappointed that she had gone. On his walk back from the village he had been filled with an irrational happiness at the novelty of going back to a house where someone waited for him. Now he chided himself for his absurdity. What had he been thinking? That she was going to stay a while? That they’d play Happy Families? For God’s sake, it was a mystery that she’d arrived in the dead of night on his doorstep. He was a rational man most of the time. There would be a logical explanation. Full stop. Now he needed to get on with things, follow his usual routine. A strong cup of coffee and two pieces of toast while he listened to the wireless and got on with the humdrum pattern of his ordered life.
When Dancey Amati woke in the night she couldn’t remember at first where she was. She was lying in a huge soft bed with springy pillows beneath her head.
The last thing that she remembered was staring up at a peculiar man who had large startled eyes and a puckered mouth. He had stared at her as though he had never seen a child before in his life. And all the while as he stared he had hopped from one foot to the other as if the floor beneath him was too hot to stand on.
Then everything had drifted into a warm darkness where she was flying, then falling, falling then flying.
Now she lay quite still, looking out through a large unshuttered window that framed the night sky like a painting. A moon as delicate as a bauble bobbed above the black branches of shivering trees, a spinning moon throwing out stars into the inky pitch.
A highway of stars stretching out across the top of the world. The same stars that she and Mama had watched that night so long ago…
They had lain together in the big bed in Sefiora Hipola’s lodging house watching the huge moon float above the tilting houses of the town, trying to count the stars of the Milky Way.
And Mama had told her that one day soon they were going to escape from Pig Lane. They were going to run away to a place where there wasn’t danger round every corner and where they wouldn’t have to Worry about talking to strangers. They wouldn’t have to keep their wits about them or keep their eyes skinned because there were poisoners and lunatics in every town they’d ever been to. Towns and villages where there were cutthroats and pirates lurking in each dark alleyway. Where there were scar-faced bandits and madmen on the loose, who would slice out your tongue and cut out your heart as soon as look at you.
Mama said they were going to escape. They were going to walk beneath the stars of the Milky Way and follow them until they reached the gateway out of Spain.
Dancey remembered now how she had closed her eyes sleepily and listened as Mama said that they were going to cross the mountains on foot. Mountains that were as tall as the moon, and when they reached the top they would reach up and pluck a star from the sky and its light would last until they reached their journey’s end.
The mountains were beautiful but dangerous too, and they would have to take great care on their journey because enormous brown bears lived there. They ate up every bit of foolish travellers and spat out only the teeth and the toenails.
In the winter the snows were deep enough to drown in and people had been lost in the drifts and never been found. It had sounded scary and exciting to Dancey. Mama said that it would be a long hard journey but when they got to the other side, oh on the other side there were the most beautiful of places in the whole wide world.
They would live in Paris or New York and they would be rich. Mama would be a famous actress or maybe a dancer and she would buy beautiful gowns of silk and taffeta, velvet and organza, hats with misty veils, shoes with gold and silver buckles, expensive soaps and perfumes. They would drive down the streets in a fine carriage pulled by four pure white horses, and they would live in a grand house with its very own bath, and they would have servants to bring the hot water and kill the cockroaches…
After his late breakfast and an hour spent listening to the wireless after which he realized he had not taken in a single word he had heard, Solly had grown restless. By early evening the house was stifling him, the walls crowding in on him until he felt that he could barely breathe.
He went out and walked briskly down towards the village. The wind was keen and restless gulls were swooping and riding the currents above the huddled houses of the town, and he could hear the waves crashing with an almighty force on to the beach.
Solly Benjamin took a deep breath, pushed open the door and stepped into the semi-darkness of Donahue’s shop-cum-bar. Above his head a bell jangled lazily. He sniffed the air curiously. The place was a veritable bran tub of smells. Fresh beer and last night’s whiskey, potatoes softening in a saucepan out in the back kitchen that was curtained off from the bar. There was no Mrs Donahue to do the cooking. She had hitched up her skirts and taken off on the mail train three winters back, and rumour had it she was living in Dublin with a man who raced pigeons and was on the wanted list for impersonating an English Duke.
Solly sniffed again. Sacks of cabbages, yellowing sprouts and piles of damp newspapers were giving off a musty, fusty air.
Donahue, a huge figure of a man, was leaning across the counter of the bar reading a newspaper and didn’t look up at the sound of the b
ell. Solly shuffled his feet. He coughed. Donahue looked up and squinted through a forelock of sweaty curls.
Donahue stared hard at Solly and Solly stared steadfastly back. Donahue picked up his broken reading glasses from the counter and perched them on the end of his bulbous nose. He carried on staring at Solly.
“Good evening, Mr Donahue,” said Solly.
Donahue gawped oafishly as though the ghost of St Francis of Assisi himself had walked in and asked for a packet of birdseed and a tin of Pal meat for dogs.
In all the time he’d lived in Ballygurry the Black Jew had never set foot in Donahue’s. In fact there were few businesses that he patronized except the newsagent and occasionally the cobbler’s.
Donahue blinked and grinned at Solly. There was a joke about that. A Jew and his sons lived in Rome; he was a cobbler who repaired shoes for the Pope. He had written above his shop ‘Cohen & Sons, cobblers to the Pope’. And someone had written underneath ‘And balls to the rabbi!’ Donahue chuckled to himself and then began to cough.
Solly cleared his throat, but Donahue continued to stare at him. Donahue thought that nobody knew where Solly Benjamin did his shopping. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps the tight old bastard lived on fresh air! Another joke. Why do Jews have big noses? Air is free.
Donahue picked his own nose and giggled.
Air is free, that was a hoot that one. Apparently Sinead Dooley had seen the Black Jew in one of the posh stores in Cork buying some disgusting-looking fish that she herself wouldn’t have fed to the feckin’ cat even though she hated the mangy-arsed thing.
Donahue took a packet of cigarettes from his waistcoat pocket. He tipped up the packet, took out a cigarette, tapped it against his finger and lifted it to his mouth.
Perhaps he ought to go steadier with the whiskey. Seeing things that weren’t there was a sure sign of the delirium tremens.
Pink elephants. Hairy-legged spiders. Naked girls. Young busty ones wearing silky cami-knickers.
He turned round to look for a box of matches on the back of the bar and yelped in fright.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Now Solly Benjamin was looking out at him from the mirror behind the bar.
Donahue spun round. He was sweating heavily now, oily beads of sweat running from his hairline over his eyebrows and into his eyes and making them sting.
He blinked rapidly, ran his fingers across the greasy stubble of his chin.
“H-how can I be of of…” stammered Donahue.
“Assistance?” said Solly.
“That’s right, of assistance, thank you for the lend of the word.”
“That’s all right, wash it out and have someone deliver it to me. But, firstly, I’d like a pint of Guinness.”
Donahue stood transfixed, yellow spittle bubbling in the corners of his opened mouth.
Shaking his head like a man surfacing from a cold sea, he turned and lifted a dusty glass from the shelf, then seeing his mouth agape in the mirror, he hastily closed it.
He pulled the pint with trembling hands and shoved the glass across the sticky counter towards Solly.
Neither man spoke. Solly waited patiently for the dark, deep liquid to settle in the glass. Then, under the mesmerized gaze of Marty Donahue, he lifted the glass up to the light, although the 15-amp bulb barely penetrated its deep, dark depths.
“Let’s raise a glass to orphans and sprites everywhere. Especially those who arrive unannounced in the dead of night and like the dew evaporate in the light of day.”
Donahue gawped. The man was mad. A mental case.
Solly raised the glass to his mouth and allowed the creamy head of the beer to seep up over his lips. He drained half of the pint in one go and then set the glass down on the counter.
Donahue watched him warily, nibbling at his dirty nails and unable to think of anything to say for the first time in his garrulous life.
“Secondly,” said Solly smacking his lips together loudly, “I’d like a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. A tin of ham, a loaf of bread and four flagons of your best ale. For this night I intend to get slaughtered.”
Donahue dipped down behind the counter and crossed himself.
Dear God. Jesus and all the saints of heaven. He wondered was it a mortal or a venial sin to serve a Jew with a tin of ham? The whiskey was okay, he supposed, but a tin of ham?
Solly Benjamin swallowed the rest of his pint and set the glass down on the bar with a satisfied smile. He really was beginning to enjoy himself.
Donahue surfaced from below the counter and with a shaky hand he placed a bottle of whiskey on it. He dipped down again, took up a tin of ham, wrapped it in newspaper and placed it on the counter next to the whiskey.
Solly took out his wallet and handed Donahue a note, smiled warmly and said, “A fine pint of Guinness, Mr Donahue. Keep the change.” Then he walked jauntily out of the shop clutching the whiskey, beer, bread and the wrapped tin of ham.
Donahue pulled himself together, ran out through the back of the shop and into the yard and called over the wall to Dermot Flynn, who was holed up in the outside lav smoking a Woodbine and reading the racing paper.
“Dermot! You’ll never believe who’s just been in here.”
“The Holy Father for an ounce of Old Shag,” muttered Dermot from behind the lav door.
“No, don’t be so ridiculous, man!”
“Mother Ignatia for a bottle of gin?”
“No! The Black Jew! He was drinking Guinness and raising his glass to lost orphans. I think the man has lost his senses.”
There was silence from behind the lav door.
“And guess what else he bought.”
The lav door rattled and Dermot Flynn, braces dangling and eyes on stalks, came shuffling out into the backyard. He listened to Donahue without interrupting once.
Within five minutes the whole of the left-hand side of Clancy Street knew that the Black Jew had gone mad. Had drunk a pint of Guinness in two gulps and also had, indeed to God, bought a bottle of whiskey and a tin of ham. Mrs Cullinane who lived in the last house on Clancy Street sent her daughter Sinead barefoot across the street to tell Nelly Kiernan who then passed it on over the wall to the widow O’Shea.
By the time Solly Benjamin had buttoned up his coat and adjusted his hat the net curtains on both sides of the street were twitching. Fifty sets of startled eyes followed him as he walked with an unaccustomed spring in his step the length of the street then turned left into Mankey’s Alley and was lost from their sight.
Padraig ran until he was exhausted, until his ears pounded with the echo of his beating heart and his legs would carry him no further. He wiped his tears away with a small dirty fist and slumped down on to the ground.
It was spooky in the Dark Wood. Weak sunlight filtered through the tangled branches of the trees and dappled on the thick mossy ground. Twigs cracked and leaves rustled beneath the tread of invisible animals. Above his head on a branch a cobweb glistened and a spider dangled on a wispy thread.
The Dark Wood was out of bounds. If he got caught he’d be in big trouble. He didn’t care though, what else could they do to him now? They could beat him and shut him in the cellar. He didn’t give a tinker’s stuff. They wouldn’t even let him take the exam for the school Mr Leary had told him about. He’d be stuck in St Joseph’s now. Maybe they’d keep him there until he was as old as Sister Immaculata. Until his teeth fell out and his legs went bandy and they’d lock him up in the attic at night.
He lay on his back until his breathing steadied and his heart beat more slowly.
The spider dangled just above his nose. It got closer and closer until he could see its eyes. It landed on his nose and he felt the silky touch of its feet on his skin. Then the spider took off, climbing back up the thread hell for leather.
Padraig closed his eyes. He’d stay here for a while until he’d calmed down and then he’d go back to St Joseph’s…
When he awoke moonlight was dripping through the branches of the trees and an owl called out
close by. It was then that he realized he wasn’t alone in the Dark Wood.
Sister Immaculata was worried. It was only ten minutes until Sister Agatha rang the supper bell and Padraig still hadn’t come back. Soon title doors would be locked and bolted and Sister Veronica would call the roll. He’d be discovered missing and then all hell would break out. And it would be all her fault if he got a beating. If she hadn’t shown him the secret way that led from the laundry to the cupboard in Sister Veronica’s room none of this would have happened.
At least the nice new priest hadn’t given them away. She and Padraig had had such a shock when the mouse had scurried into the cupboard followed by the priest. She giggled now as she remembered the look of holy terror on the priesfs face when he’d clapped eyes on her and Padraig. The poor man had been shocked out of his wits.
Poor little Padraig. When Sister Veronica said that he wouldn’t be allowed to take the exam for the school near Cork he was heartbroken. It was all he could do to stifle his sobs there in that dark cupboard.
When they’d finally escaped from the cupboard they’d stood together in the gloomy light of the laundry. The boy’s eyes had filled up with tears. –
“I’m not going to stay here, they can’t make me! And I’m not going to Australia either. I’m going to run away.”
“Where would you go though, Padraig?”
“Anywhere. Anywhere at all that’s not here. I’ll catch a ride on the train, join up with a band of tinkers or the circus.”
“Take me with you, Padraig.”
“I would, Sister, if I could.”
He wondered if she’d mind being fired out of a cannon. Probably not, she was a game old bugger.
“I know a grand place where we could eat fresh sardines and drink red wine.”
“Where’s that?”
“I don’t remember now but it was lovely.”
