Future Popes of Ireland

by Darragh Martin

  In certain records, the history might be simple; Peg Doyle had acquired property she did not need, so she had sold that property to a willing buyer. The financial transactions of Peg Doyle were a private matter, certainly not affairs she needed to disclose to her sister. If said sister were upset at the party to whom the property had been transferred to, well, this was an unfortunate occurrence but business should not be clouded by emotion; Peg Doyle needed capital more than property and John Paul Doyle’s proposal made perfect financial sense. In this account, timing would be incidental, demonstrating either the admirable capacity of Peg Doyle to conduct business dealings without emotion or the adroit manner in which Peg Doyle could respond to new information and rectify misperceptions with reparative decisions.

  Peg gripped the stone in her hands; she had the sense that if she crushed it she might feel better. Nothing. Evidently, she needed to work out, a thought that produced a dry laugh in the quiet of the library, though nobody was there to hear. Pull yourself together, Peg Doyle! sounded in her head, the stone dropped back into its protective box, though this action too afforded no relief.

  She hadn’t asked Aunty Mary for the house, she reminded herself. She was American now, walking proof of the nation’s trademarked dream – hadn’t she crossed an ocean with little more than a schoolbag (all that ballast shed) and carved a life for herself? She didn’t need some anchor to Ireland. So she’d said ‘yes’ to John Paul’s first email, eager to be clean of the haunted house, sure that Granny Doyle wouldn’t be happy with whatever a fake pope did to her home. That would be the end of it, no Doyles knocking at her door, she’d hoped, but then Rosie had arrived, oblivious as always, and they’d talked and cried and held each other, like sisters, while that other history rumbled along.

  I shouldn’t have told you the truth, Rosie had said, through tears, the night she’d stuffed her things into one rucksack, thinking that Peg’s actions had some relation to her news about who had told Granny Doyle about Ruadhan. Rosie had almost looked disappointed when Peg explained that this decision had nothing to do with that, you don’t actually care about any of us, do you? a question that probably should have been met with a response.

  The words hung in the air, following her to the archive, Rosie’s and Dev’s voices layering over each other, alternately hurt and angry, don’t turn your back on me! and I don’t care about the money! and all this time, and you didn’t say a thing! and the crescendo: you’re fucked up, Peg, you know that?

  Oh yes, Peg thought, closing the cuneiform’s protective box with a sigh, she knew all about that.

  9

  Duty-Free Bag (2007)

  John Paul gulped the last of his Guinness in the airport pub; they’d be calling them for boarding soon and he still had more duty-free to stock up on. He’d got the booze and the fags but, when he reflected upon it, he wasn’t sure that he had enough items that combined chocolate and peanut butter. Or Oreos. He’d bought Clo a couple of packets, but he could probably stuff more in the duty-free suitcase. Perfume, too; he could never bring enough of that back for her. He had a lot to do, certainly not time for another pint, but then Damien was up with an ‘I’ll get these’ and John Paul hadn’t the heart to say no.

  Fuck it, they’d skull them and then they’d do a blitz of the duty-free, dashing around like they were on some game show where they had to fill up a basket with as much swag as they could before the time ran out (a metaphor for life? He’d write it down, see if it could be material for a stocking filler). A quick message to Clo. Let her know that he had the perfume and Oreos. Anything else she needed? Jason had already shared some of the photos from the stag do, the bastard. Clo had been game: Ah, now, I don’t want to know anything about that! He hadn’t told her about the meeting with Peg. The house, yes, of course they’d consulted about that, but he’d skirted around the personal parts. That was the trick of things between them; if they kept things light, they could conquer continents together.

  Perhaps it was for the best that Peg hadn’t shown. He felt a strain in his chest: the shots or the pizza or the stretch of a black hole, he couldn’t tell. He’d have to stock up on peanut butter and chocolate, every colour of candy; if he filled his insides, there’d be no space for anything else. He’d get some as soon as Damien got back. He picked up his phone. Nothing from Clo, not even an ‘xx’ or a ‘mwah!’ A quick call to Granny Doyle? Tell her he was about to board and he’d said a prayer to Saint Joseph of Cupertino (patron saint of air travel); she’d love that.

  He’d say the prayer first. One to Saint Ultán too. Perhaps Mrs Nugent was there beside him, talking the ear off the poor man. Perhaps this could be good material for a video? Saints like air traffic controllers, something about Fiannix’s excellent reception – he’d write down the idea. He’d text Clo; she’d love it. The trick was to keep focus. Was there a patron saint for that? He’d look it up. Or family? Was there some magician in Heaven who’d sort that out for him? He’d ask Granny Doyle, when he gave her a buzz, in a minute.

  They’d be grand. Rosie would calm down. Maybe he’d let her keep her hair blue for the wedding. (He’d buy Clo a suitcase full of perfume.) She’d love what they did with the house, eventually. It wasn’t as if Peg had ever been planning to live there. It was for the best that she hadn’t shown up (something expanded in his chest). Best to keep things focused: texts and emails and crisp phone calls. They could all have pints one day, once the development was finished: they could sit on the balcony and toast the safe, invisible movement of gas underneath their feet and laugh at the day that anything had ever divided the lot of them.

  ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’

  It was Damien, the pints deposited with unusual haste. He was up and away before John Paul could stop him. Typical, Damien buried in his phone with some government shite when John Paul needed him to help carry some of the giant Toblerones.

  It wasn’t government business, though, John Paul could tell from the worry creased on his face. He clocked what Damien was up to and he had an urge to stop him. Ah, now, you wouldn’t want to know anything about that! Damien did, though, that was always his problem, and John Paul drank his pint instead of stopping him, the black hole inside his chest stirring; he’d need another round, after all.

  10

  Boarding Card (2007)

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘…’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Peg?’

  ‘…’

  ‘It’s Damien.’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I’m at JFK.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘…’

  ‘It sounds busy.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘Damien, I’m … the other night … I’m …’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘I’m at work at the moment.’

  ‘The library?’

  ‘Yes. It’s …’

  ‘Probably quieter than here!’

  ‘Yes. I …’

  ‘It’s not a good time. No problem! I have to go too. Work. The flight. Duty-free! I just …’

  ‘…’

  ‘The thing is …’

  ‘I don’t know what Rosie …’

  ‘Nothing. I just …’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘Maybe we can find a better time for us both. When I’m not at work. It’d be a bit easier. Things have been a bit difficult, the last few days, to tell the truth …’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘Peg—’

  ‘Damien—’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘It’s …’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’


  ‘It’s all a long time ago, now.’

  ‘Peg—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Damien, but this isn’t a great time. I have a meeting and—’

  ‘Sure. They’re calling our flight now, anyway. I hate being late.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘Thanks for—’

  ‘No problem. I’ll let you go, so.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘Damien …’

  ‘That’s our flight there! I’d better go! Maybe we can talk again, a better time?’

  ‘Sure. Have a good flight!’

  ‘Bye!’

  ‘Bye!’

  11

  Surfboard (2007)

  To Ciarán’s great credit, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t get at Rosie for how long she’d been away or for how difficult the campaign had been. He didn’t ask about New York; he listened to as much as she wanted to say and held her when she cried and didn’t say a word about whatever monstrosity John Paul wanted to erect in the big garden where once they’d laid out the Blessed Shells of Erris to dry.

  Nor did he say a thing when Rosie walked into the sea in her gold bridesmaid’s dress. She should have returned it – or at least searched for the fecking receipt – but Rosie felt a savage satisfaction at ruining the dress; she might slash it to strips, later. She looked a right sight, she knew, but wrecking a dress was nothing in comparison to the damage humans could wreak (in front of her was the gas rig; behind, the house that John Paul would gut into apartments for Shell workers). Rosie longed to scream but she was crying instead, tears sliding into a sea full enough with its own sorrows.

  Rosie … Ciarán’s arm said, gentle around her back as the waves crashed towards them. We’ll get you on a kayak or a surfboard, his grip said, get you good enough to stop any ship. They wouldn’t look behind. They’d surf out to meet whatever digger Shell sent into the bay. They’d ride the crests of waves, fearless.

  Come on home, the tug of Ciarán’s arm said, a movement Rosie was keen to follow, the dress dripping along the beach, Ciarán having the sense not to say anything except to ask if he’d get to wear the gold dress now, which he would, without a bat of one of his extremely kissable eyelashes, reason enough for Rosie to put her arm around his waist, a lifetime of blissful, radical, unmarriedness ahead of them if they wanted it.

  12

  VIP Magazine (2007)

  ‘Mind you, I didn’t think much of the dress. Not for the cost of it.’

  Denise Donnelly gritted her teeth and waved to John Paul, who was making a complex series of hand gestures that conveyed, she imagined, the location of the castle in relation to the church. She didn’t need them with her satnav, or with her mother, who would surely give her unsolicited suggestions for the majority of the drive. She was only jealous, Denise reminded herself; she was disappointed that Denise and Keith showed no sign of formalizing things while Jason treated his girlfriends like toothbrushes, too hard if you kept them for too long. Denise felt unaccountably irritable, when usually she loved weddings, when this one promised a free bar and minor celebrities, and the chance that her outfit might feature in the background of VIP magazine; it must be because Keith wasn’t there, off at his son’s soccer match while she was stuck with her parents, her dad no help, having tuned out her mother’s frequency long ago.

  ‘Mind you, I think wedding registries can be a bit tacky. Though maybe they need every gift they can get! Weren’t you saying you saw John Paul in at your branch looking for a loan?’

  Denise swerved a little too aggressively.

  ‘No, I wasn’t, and if I was I shouldn’t have been disclosing confidential information.’

  ‘Sure, I wouldn’t breathe a word! I’m only making conversation. And I’d say little enough has been well spent if that service is anything to go by. Why in the world you’d need gold confetti is beyond me, some people have no appreciation for subtlety.’

  ‘Mam, would you shut up for a minute, you’re wrecking my head, and I need to find this bloody castle.’

  The rest of the drive was spent in silence: Mrs Donnelly’s mind occupied with a flurry of thoughts about filial ingratitude, the superiority of Jason’s driving over Denise’s, and the selfishness of holding a wedding in a location with so many potholes; Mr Donnelly lost in deep contemplation as to whether he might choose smoked salmon or lamb kebabs for his starter.

  *

  Mr Donnelly dropped his menu in disgust, unclear when it had become fashionable to eat seaweed.

  *

  There hadn’t been that carry-on at her wedding, Granny Doyle was sure of it. That lad from next door telling all sorts of stories about John Paul; Granny Doyle was glad she was going deaf, though, the voice on Jason Donnelly, Helen Keller couldn’t have missed what he was saying. And then she couldn’t resist speaking either, calling John Paul ‘J.P.,’ or worse, ‘babe’. But then John Paul had spoken, said he’d been reared by the best woman in Ireland, raised his glass to her and smiled, a proper smile, no danger of his eyes winking, and she knew that nothing else would matter that night; she was happy.

  *

  ‘Let’s move before he comes back. Did you know him?’

  A small shrug of Rory O’Donoghue’s shoulders: what was there to be said about Damien Doyle?

  ‘He’s probably downloading more petitions to bore us with,’ Olly said, forking up a last morsel of cake. ‘The way he was going on, as if being in government made him a celebrity. Hello, there’s nothing cool about a club that includes an Ahern: they don’t even know which boy band to be marrying into.’

  Olly shook off his irritation as soon as he stood up, happiness his natural condition, especially when there was a floor to be danced on, Rory to be danced with, fetching in his bow-tied professor get-up. Olly felt a twinge of guilt at dragging Rory along; it wasn’t as if he had kept in touch with Clodagh Reynolds since Trinity, but he knew he had to go, because now she was marrying the cutest ever Pope, who just now had tipped his glass to Olly – as if there were a real connection between them – and Olly felt that he was thus only one step away from dating a pope. Not that Olly had any complaints – how could anybody be unhappy with a man so adept at the moonwalk that the floor had already cleared for him?

  *

  Damien stared at his phone, happier to be reading the news than listening to Mrs Fay, who was remembering her own lovely wedding. He wished that he were dating Mark, so that he would have a shield at such events, somebody to be in a grumpier mood than he was. Somebody to introduce to Rory O’Donoghue or to stand opposite the smiling dope of a boyfriend that Rory was dating. He was the person Damien had ended up talking to, not Rory, who listened as Damien gabbed on about the Greens, mentioning the civil partnership bill, hoping that Rory would understand that he, Damien, was out now, had been happily gaying it up for years since he’d left the Legion of Mary, but instead Rory had started talking to one of Clodagh’s friends and Damien was stuck in a conversation with his idiotic boyfriend, the kind that would dress up to go to the STD clinic.

  Damien wanted Mark to walk over, an earlier version of Mark, perhaps an imaginary one, who would stride through the door, whisper something dirty in his ear, and pull him off to the castle dungeons. When somebody did come over to the table, though, it was only John Paul.

  ‘Hey big bro.’

  ‘I’m only a few minutes older than you: you don’t get to call me that.’

  ‘But so much wiser.’

  ‘Ha, doesn’t that mean Rosie’s supposed to be wise too?’

  ‘Well …’

  They drank.

  ‘Have you heard from her?’

  ‘No.’

  Damien pulled out his phone, but there were no messages from actual humans, just more list-servs and petitions. Mrs Fay had left them to it.

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘Sure. It’s great.’

  ‘Good to have som
e family here.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You okay for a drink?’

  ‘I’m grand.’

  John Paul plonked another beer in front of Damien, listening never his strong suit. He scanned the room, nodding to a few people.

  ‘Any form? I can put in a word for you if you want. Give you my blessing!’

  He had to credit John Paul: he was trying.

  ‘I don’t think I need a pope for a wingman.’

  ‘Ah, come on, it’s what weddings are for! Let’s see. Aha!’

  ‘The waiter?’

  ‘Yeah, the Spanish one, he’s been throwing eyes at you. And you’d make Gran’s day.’

  Damien nearly choked on his beer.

  ‘Are you joking?’

  John Paul raised both of his eyebrows: would I do such a thing?

  ‘You know the way they’d have all sorts of different names in Spain? Guess what yer man’s called.’

  ‘What?’

  John Paul grinned, the face he had on before he was about to deliver a quip on a video. ‘Jesús.’

  *

  There was magic in the air, there had to be. What else would have Mrs McGinty pulling out her handkerchief again, an item which, prior to that day, had most likely not been unfolded since the Second World War? She had accepted a medicinal Scotch from John Paul, and then another, and then, there she was, blowing into her handkerchief at the sight of John Paul and Clodagh Doyle slow-dancing together, telling Granny Doyle that Mr McGinty had been a fine dancer in his day, surprising Mrs Donnelly, who sat beside her hoping for some judgement but instead found herself listening to ‘ah well, isn’t it nice to see young people in love?’

  *

  Something had to be in the air, because what else would have Mrs Donnelly leaning on her daughter’s arm and pronouncing John Paul Doyle a charmer, a man whose word carried weight when the phrase ‘best hat I’ve ever seen’ was uttered.