He said the last three words emphatically, gazing directly at MacCrae. MacCrae began to weep. Father O'Keefe shut the book and turned his gaze on Paddy.
‘Delaney, you have a prodigious memory. Do you recall what our Lord said in Matthew 18, verse 6?’
Paddy shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
‘But he that shall scandalize one of these little ones that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone should be hanged about his neck, and that he should be drowned in the depth of the sea,’ he offered.
‘I would like you, Delaney, to take those words to heart,’ said Father O'Keefe. ‘The world is full of temptation, boys. By mortifying the soul, the religious man empties out a resonant chamber within, where the voice of the divine might be heard. I know that both of you are listening for that voice. MacCrae, I know that you strive hard to advance yourself. Delaney, I have been told by your uncle that you too have hopes of one day finding a vocation within the church. These are great and noble things to aspire to, but to be called to Christ is not an easy path. You must not allow things of the world to distract you from your purpose and lead you into temptation.’
In the dormitory that night, the two boys undressed with care, nursing their tender hands. Paddy tried to catch MacCrae's eye, but MacCrae wouldn't look at him. Paddy pulled his nightshirt on over his head and slipped into the cold bed. When the lights were turned down, he whispered into the darkness,‘MacCrae, I'm sorry, I'm ever so sorry. I never meant for you, for us, to be caught.’
MacCrae sighed. ‘It's better that we were caught,’ he said. ‘Otherwise we might never have seen the error and never repented.’
Paddy didn't feel repentant. He knew he had broken the school rules, but he didn't feel ashamed or wicked. Then he thought of the look on MacCrae's face as the cane slashed into his hand. That, Paddy was deeply ashamed of. He put his hands together and prayed the Acts of Contrition, five Our Fathers and thirty Hail Marys, but when he had finished there was no resonance in the chamber of his soul, and no voice broke the silence of his unhappiness.
On Christmas morning, Paddy's hands were still pink and tender, with raised welts across the palms. He wouldn't be able to open any oysters today. But worse than the pain was the idea of having to face Uncle Kevin. He knew Uncle Kevin had received not only his exam results but also a letter from Father O'Keefe.
After mass finished, Paddy walked down the long drive, head bowed and hands thrust deep into his pockets. There were other boys waiting to be taken away for Christmas dinner as well, but their faces were full of bright anticipation.
John Doherty was waiting at the gates.
‘'Tis a lovely day to be celebrating our precious Lord's birthday,’ he said, nodding at the snowy fields as Paddy climbed onto the bench beside him. Paddy was so enveloped in gloom, he found it hard to do anything other than nod.
‘You're grim today, little priest. That's not right on a day like this. Is it that you're missing your own mam? I can understand that. I wouldn't want to miss having Christmas with Mam and my sister Eileen's little ones.’
‘I wish I was having Christmas with you,’ said Paddy gloomily.
‘Well, that would be an honour, to have the little priest to bless us on such a day. Perhaps when you're finished at your uncle's you could come and join us for some supper.’
Paddy didn't like to tell John about the trouble with the cheroots nor any of the other punishments he'd received at St Columcille's. John Doherty believed Paddy was a perfect student; a saintly, well-behaved young scholar, and Paddy didn't have the heart to disillusion him.
Uncle Kevin was waiting in the street when they arrived at the shop. He was holding a wrapped gift and for a brief, impossible moment, Paddy thought it might have been a welcoming present for him.
‘Merry Christmas, John,’ said Uncle Kevin, not even looking at Paddy. ‘A small gift to thank you for bringing the boy to us. We'll keep him with us this evening and make other arrangements to send him back to school tomorrow.’
‘Now, I was just saying it would be grand, if you don't mind sir, if the lad joined us for supper this evening. I'll be staying up in town myself so I could bring him here again when we're done,’ said John. ‘And I'll be happy to collect the lad tomorrow.’
‘I don't think that would be wise. The boy has things to answer to this evening.’
Uncle Kevin's hand was heavy on Paddy's shoulder as they walked upstairs to the rooms above the shop. Aunt Lil dived at Paddy and gave him a quick and anxious pat on his arm. The look of fear and pity in her eyes made his heart beat faster. She said ‘But it's Christmas, spare the boy until tomorrow, Kevin, dear.’
Uncle Kevin didn't turn to look at her. He spoke through gritted teeth,‘Best to deal with this first. Once the boy's been punished, we can all enjoy our Christmas dinner.’
‘They punished me at school,’ said Paddy, holding up his hands to show the swollen welts.
Uncle Kevin ignored his gesture and steered Paddy into the office, shutting Aunt Lil out.
‘I —’ began Paddy.
‘Be quiet, boy!’ shouted Uncle Kevin,‘and pray for forgiveness. How can you hope to find a place at the seminary if you're a thief and a liar? Your mortal soul is in jeopardy, boy. And the only way you'll understand that is if we thrash the devil out of you. Take your trousers off.’
Paddy was trembling as he undid the buttons. Uncle Kevin took off his belt and folded it in two and then he roughly grabbed Paddy by the collar and forced him to bend over, across the desk. Paddy braced himself for the first lash. It was harder than he'd anticipated, and his knees buckled. He bit his lip to stop from crying out. Blow after blow rained down, each one more savage than the one before.
On the desk in front of him stood the framed photograph of Uncle Patrick and Uncle Kevin on the day of their first communion. Their blank, indifferent faces stared out at Paddy. He hated them both. Beside the photo was a silver inkwell, and some of the ink slopped onto the desk with each reverberating blow. As Uncle Kevin drew his arm back for the next strike, Paddy closed his hand around the inkwell, spun around and threw it straight into his uncle's face. Uncle Kevin roared and dropped the belt, while Paddy darted around to the other side of the desk to grab his trousers. He bolted downstairs and through the shop, yanking on his trousers before running into the snowy street in his bare feet. He heard Aunt Lil calling, but he ran on, his feet slipping on the icy cobbles. He ran until his chest ached from gasping the freezing air. At the end of the next street, he stumbled in the slushy grey snow and fell on his hands and knees, panting. Suddenly, Aunt Lil was beside him, helping him to his feet. She smelt of oranges and warm bread. He pressed his face against her shoulder and then, all at once, tears ran down his face.
‘Don't make me come back, Aunt Lil. I can't come back, not today,’ he sobbed.
‘Patrick, darling, he doesn't mean to be so hard. He wants you to be a fine priest one day. He has such hopes for you. We all do,’ she murmured, stroking Paddy's hair.
‘I can't come back. I can't. I'll walk back to school, Aunt Lil. I won't be bothering you. I'll walk back to school and never mind about Christmas.’
Aunt Lil touched his cheek with her cool hand and then looked down the length of the silent street in the direction of the tobacconist's.
‘Wait here. I'll come back to you.’
Ten minutes later, she came hurrying around the corner. She brought Paddy his boots and a fresh pair of socks and a thick knitted scarf that she wrapped around his neck. She'd even brought his overcoat. When he had stopped shivering, she handed him a net bag with oranges in it, a bag of nuts and a folded piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.
‘You go to John Doherty's and wait with him. I've drawn you a little map. He's just across the river. You can't be walking all the way back to the school in this freezing weather. You tell him how I sent you, and John will take you back to St Columcille's. God bless you, child, and now run, before your uncle realises wh
at I've done.’
The streets were quiet, the snow fell like grace, the Liffey was grey and still. It was as if the city was dead, for all were inside with their families except for Paddy Delaney.
The street that John Doherty's family lived in had once been grand, with tall terraces all the length of it, but now the paintwork was worn and peeling around the doorways.
Paddy knocked on the first door off the hallway and a man directed him to a room upstairs.
‘Why, it's the little priest!’ exclaimed John Doherty as he opened the door. ‘Your good uncle has sent you to us after all, has he?’
Paddy simply nodded and held out Aunt Lil's gifts. He was afraid that if he spoke he would burst into tears again. John seemed to sense something was wrong. He put his arm around Paddy and guided him into the room.
There was not much furniture, just a single chair by the fire, a small table and three beds. A woman was cooking bacon on the fire and the room smelt warm and smoky. There was a crowd of small children and they squealed when they saw the bag of oranges Paddy was carrying. John introduced him, and in a moment, all of them were crowding around him, exclaiming as if he was the most exciting person they'd ever met.
‘I'm going to make a Christmas wish,’ announced Peggie, the littlest girl. She glanced across at Paddy. ‘I'm going to wish that when I grow up, I'll marry that boy.’ She pointed at Paddy and all the Dohertys laughed.
‘You can't be marrying him, stupid,’ said Moira, the eldest child. ‘He's going to be a priest. Uncle John says so.’
Peggie pouted and put her thumb in her mouth, and everyone laughed again. Paddy looked down at the little girl, and for the first time that day he smiled. He took the oranges out of the net bag and even though his hands were sore, he started to juggle them. The little ones whooped with delight. Then Moira set about peeling the oranges and breaking them into segments for everyone to share. As soon as Paddy sat down on the end of one of the rickety beds, Peggie climbed onto his lap and put her arms around his neck.
Paddy felt sorry for the scant Christmas meal the Dohertys spread out before him. There was no goose, chicken or turkey. The sausages and bacon and black pudding were warm and filling but there was barely enough to go around. Someone from St Vincent de Paul's had brought the family a hamper with a rich, sweet Christmas cake and some little bags of boiled sweets for the children. There was also a big red candle that Moira lit with solemn excitement and set on the windowsill as the December afternoon folded into evening.
Mammy Doherty and Eileen served tea and there was a big plate of broken biscuits from the Jacob's factory. By the time he had finished eating, even though Paddy was sore in his body, he felt warm inside. The little boys bounced on the bed, their faces sticky with sugar and dirt. John pulled out a mouth organ and began to play and the whole family sang Christmas songs. When the candle grew low, and the small children sleepy, John turned to Paddy and gently touched his shoulder.
‘Now, Paddy, it's too late to be taking you anywhere, my boy. I think you had best be stopping with the Dohertys for the night. I'm going out to check the nag, down in the stable yard, but you make yourself at home. They won't be missing you at school until tomorrow and, from what you've told me, your uncle won't be missing you neither.’
Paddy tried to hide his grimace. ‘No, nobody will be missing me. Thank you kindly, John.’
Paddy couldn't see how eleven people were going to pile into three beds, but he had nowhere else to go. Mammy Doherty and Eileen set a pot of water to boil on the fire and then scrubbed the children's hands and faces so they looked shiny and clean again, and then in no time the three little boys were organised to get into one bed with Paddy. The two elder girls climbed into bed with their mother and the two smallest with their grandmother. John Doherty would sleep in the big chair by the fire.
Paddy was almost asleep when John Doherty returned, smelling of Guinness. He could hear the sound of men's drunken singing out in the street. John reached over and snuffed out the candle and then settled himself in the chair.
Outside the window, high above Dublin, a full moon rose up, its white face like a crazed marble through the frosted glass of the tenement window. Paddy shut his eyes and let the darkness take him.
7
The faithful departed
John Doherty no longer came to take Paddy into Dublin on Sunday afternoons. Uncle Kevin wrote to the Prefect of Studies saying he didn't want Paddy to visit until he had redeemed himself. MacCrae was wary of Paddy now, and even though Fitzgerald still punched him cheerfully whenever they passed each other on the stairs, Paddy could tell from his manner that his mother had told him to avoid the tobacconist's nephew. It was as if a black cloud lingered over Paddy and everyone could see it.
Paddy hated January, the deep, dark, cold month when the sky was always grey and hovering close to the ground, while mist lay heavy in the hollows. He longed for the brisk winds that blew off the sea and the high blue skies of the coast. On a particularly still and bleak January day, a letter arrived from his sister, Honor. He opened it as he walked across the grounds of St Columcille's and as soon as he read the first few sentences, he wished a strong wind would blow the letter from his hand and sweep it away.
Mam is too ill to pen this letter to you so I am writing what I believe she would say to you and that is that you must try to do better. How could you think so little of our Mam, to bring her grief when you know she hasn't been well all this long winter? How could you be so thoughtless?
Each sentence was more cutting than a blow from Father O'Keefe's cane.
Paddy crumpled Honor's letter and stuffed it into his pocket, but the words continued to spin round and round inside his head. Some boys were playing football in the quadrangle. Paddy didn't want to join them. He felt tired and heavy in his limbs as he made his way to the college library. Since Christmas, it had been the only place he felt at ease. It was a long room with high windows that the winter sun cut through in the morning and was warm and bright with gaslight in the afternoon. With a book open before him, he could disappear into the words on the page and blot out all the harsh things Honor had written. He pulled out a small brown leather book that was wedged tight between two fat ones and took it over to the study table.
It was a book of poems in Latin. He read them slowly, savouring each word, playing with it until he had found just the right way to translate it into English. It was the only part of studying Latin that Paddy found easy. Sometimes Father O'Keefe would seem almost annoyed and suspect Paddy of cheating, so quickly did he find his way through a Latin poem and yet stumble endlessly when conjugating a simple verb. The little book of poems quickly absorbed him. They were poems about St Patrick, St Brendan and St Columcille. He especially liked one stanza from an Invocation from the Blessed Bishop Patrick. Some of the lines in it made his heart feel less heavy.
Pelle merorem …
Cast out sorrow
and sing with joy
through night and day
with your sweet voice
from the rising sun
to the highest stars.
That night, he dreamt of a bright, open landscape where the wind swept off the sea and he ran free across the wilderness. He woke the next morning with the words of the poem ringing in his head, and as clear as a revelation, he suddenly knew what he needed to do to win back everyone's confidence, to give his mother hope, to make everyone proud.
Every Easter, St Columcille's College offered a poetry prize for the best translation from Latin of a holy work. Paddy knew that he could translate the poem that he'd read the day before. The words sang out to him, even as he broke the ice in his washbasin and scrubbed his face and neck before morning mass.
Every free moment that Paddy had, he scurried to the library and studied the invocation. It was a long poem and far more difficult than anything his class was studying. He had to be careful to make sure he got all the tenses right, that every part of the poem was true to the original but that it d
idn't lose any of its sweetness. When he had translated the first three stanzas, he showed them to Father O'Keefe.
The old priest frowned as he read through Paddy's careful lettering.
‘And this is your own work, with no help from one of the older boys?’ asked Father O'Keefe.
Paddy nodded. Father O'Keefe looked back at the page and Paddy could see he was impressed.
‘This reads very well, Delaney. But you realise the Easter prize requires you translate the entire poem, not merely a few stanzas? And that it is grammatically correct. There are a few small mistakes here.’
‘I understand, Father. But the other boys also told me that it has never been won by a boy in first year. That it's usually the senior boys who take the prize.’
Father O'Keefe sat back in his chair and looked out the window at the mist.
‘This is true. But on the strength of this work, I think you should attempt it. And I think perhaps you and I should spend a little more time together, working on your grammar.’
Paddy tried not to grin from ear to ear.
That afternoon, as he worked on the poem, he imagined how good it would be to win the medal and take it home to the Burren in the summer. Honor had written that the one thing that might rouse Mam from her illness was to know that Paddy was becoming the scholar she had always dreamt he would be.
Every spare moment he could find, Paddy sat in the library or in the study hall, working on the poem. Until the last minute before they turned the lights down, Paddy would sit on his bed, reading his way through the thick Latin grammar books, working his way through all the extra exercises that Father O'Keefe had set him. As the dark settled, Paddy found light shining out of the pages of the books. The words swam behind his eyes even when he lay in bed at night.
Becoming Billy Dare Page 4
