Her heart threatened to come up into her throat and her fists clenched. It would be mortifying to cancel the meal with her family. It would probably be easier to do that than confront Frank, especially in the mood he’d been in since the other night in the Parochial House.
She took in a deep breath and dried her hands on the tea-towel, leaning her back against the sink, feeling its hard ridges against her back.
Now or never.
“Frank, Tony and Marjorie are coming to eat tonight. He’s going back to the states in a few days. I told you about it.”
He closed the space between them. His face a rigid mask, he grasped her arms, through her jumper.
“I don’t care what you do with your fucking family. My friends are coming here, tonight. That’s it. No explanation. No argument. My house, I’ll remind you. I put the food on the table and the clothes on your back.”
The grip on her upper arms tightened to the point where the pressure became pain and the pain so acute it brought hot tears to the backs of her eyes and was all her mind could focus on.
He gave one more, even tighter, mercifully short squeeze, and he relinquished his hold on her. She closed her eyes and heard rather than saw him stride from the kitchen. His face would have relaxed now, focused on whatever it was her trivia had disturbed. She’d been dealt with, brought into line and reminded of who was the boss. It had been mild compared with so many other incidents. His heart hadn’t been truly in it this time, impatient rather than enjoying it.
It was different for her this time. Rather than the cowed helplessness, she burned with fury. Tears flooded from her eyes and ran burning down her cheeks. They weren’t tears of sadness for lost love or anger at how he could treat her like that. This time, they were tears of rage. He had hurt her for the last time. She was no nearer knowing, how she’d cover this up with her family or how she’d stop this. But, stop it she would or die in the attempt.
* * *
Maggie’s mind occupied, she took her housekeeping box and went into the parlour. Hannah was having a day off, a rare event, not for any nice outing, but to take her daughter to the eye clinic.
The fact that the room was occupied, unusual for this time of day, seeped into her consciousness. It was unusual too, because she’d always know when one of the priests would be having a private meeting with someone. In fact, it was her duty to open the door when the bell rang and take the person through. It was normally the small parlour, or office, that they used. They used the main parlour for evening socialising and for important guests. The door was closed, and she smelled cigarette smoke and a sweet, potent spirits smell. The voices were pitched low, with every now and then a slight inflection of irritation or urgency. There were more than two of them. The canon’s voice was one of those she heard. The other thing that struck her was that she had no clue that anyone else was in the house. She stood for a few seconds, debating whether to knock and go for it. It was her normal duty that she was doing. Why would she hesitate? But, the canon wouldn’t see it like that. He’d jump to the conclusion that she was prying. Not that he’d be wrong. When Mary Crowe had phoned in dire straits, Maggie had been pulled out of her own worries to think about something shocking that had happened in Ballytierney—a place that had become as familiar again to her, as the back of her hand.
She’d been shocked, of course, she had. But, it had still only occupied a part of her mind. That had changed with the arrest of Father Tom. She wasn’t going to step away from that. Whatever evidence might be there or whatever Ben Cronin had got out of him, her gut feeling was that an injustice was being committed. Her whole life had been…well, not ruined, but violently swept off course, by being wronged. She was fond of Father Tom and protective of him and no way would she stand by and let him be the patsy here. So, she’d listen just for a minute.
It went quiet, and her heart hammered. Had they cottoned on to her presence out in the corridor?
“No jumped up garda or young wet-behind the- ear bog-trotting garsun is going to destroy what I’ve achieved.” The words had been venomous, and Maggie’s hammering heart made her uncomfortable now. God forbid, she’d have a heart attack or give into weakness and crash to the floor, more or less with her ear pressed to the parlour door.
“Aw, whist, man. Don’t lose your nerve. It’s all too long ago and what happened to Si is probably not related at all. Plus, you’ve got the fact that the young fella walked into it. Stupid boy. You couldn’t make it up. If that’s the best the church can do with its vocations these days, God help us all, Canon.”
That was Donal Taffe, the head teacher. Maggie bit her bottom lip. If they’d only say something, she could get her teeth into.
“That isn’t helping matters, Donal.”
She heard the canon’s most forbidding tone. That was interesting if she had time to consider it into it. Whatever was happening, he was more in control of the situation than at least one out of the other two men in the room.
“I thought we said last night that the young fella could go to the wall, that none of us were…”
“Keep your voice down, Frank. Didn’t you see that poster they used in the war, about walls having ears?”
Oh no, was that directed at her? Surely not. She backed away silently as she could and then turned and went back to the kitchen.
Chapter Eight
“Don’t leave the country. In fact, don’t leave Ballytierney.”
The young man had already lost the spark of life he’d shown when Cronin told him he was released, “for the time being”.
Maybe the thought of returning to the parochial house and the cold welcome he would get from the canon had taken the good out of his release.
“I’m not going anywhere. My mother is coming to stay. Not in the parochial house. She’s staying at the guest house, Gillespie’s.”
“How did you find this out?”
“The housekeeper, Miss Cahill.”
Ah, yes, she’d come in with clothes and food, worried that he’d be on prison rations, no doubt. He’d seen no harm in allowing her in to see him. Judging by her troubled look as she left the barracks she was as puzzled as the guards about what a young priest had done to find himself in this position.
“You have one good friend, there, young man…Father Tom, I mean. If you can’t talk to us or your spiritual director, or your mother, maybe you might be able to confide in her.”
The strain in the younger man’s face was unbearable. He’d lost his colour, and the bloom of youth and he looked nothing else only broken. Cronin knew he should let him go now, play by the book. His position wasn’t one of advisor or friend. Impulse, normally well-restrained, by years of practice, took over. Maybe if the solicitor hadn’t been that pompous, tight-arse…
“Look, I don’t know what involvement you have here. You are holding something back, and the little I’ve seen of you is enough to take a guess that you’re trying to protect someone. But, common sense must come into it sometime, lad. Secrets always come out and especially so, when a serious crime has been committed. Even if your own code or the priest’s code or whatever it is, prevents you from telling the guards anything, for your own peace of mind, you need to tell someone.”
An afterthought- he hoped it was an afterthought and not a premonition—made him add. “Saying that, Father Tom. Be very careful who you choose to confide in.”
Father Tom Lally nodded and left the barracks.
Dick Sheehan, who had witnessed part of the interview threw a questioning look at him.
* * *
“See that we’re not disturbed, Miss Cahill.” He no longer bothered to have a good day, one where he might give the odd smile or even pass a remark about the weather. Not that, he did that all that often but, now, he more or less issued orders, or pulled her up on some behaviour or another. That was probably how it went in a bad marriage. It didn’t happen overnight that switch from roses round the door to misery. Rather, it happened over time, a gradual lessening of the c
ourtesies, loss of respect, until you were like those couples you saw out in the town sometimes, barely acknowledging each other only to grunt or snap.
Maybe, it was as well her own marriage had been so short and unusual. She looked around her, ridiculously. She almost never even allowed that thought to enter her head.
“I’ll bring you some tea, then,” she said and left the small parlour before the canon could express outrage at the cheek of her.
He could attempt to bully her if he liked, but she was going to do her damndest to make sure he lay off poor Father Tom, who looked like a troubled ghost since his return from the barracks.
When she returned with the tray, containing, in addition to the teapot and crockery, a plate of her currant cake, Father Tom sat on the edge of the upholstered, upright chair, hands clasped in front of him. The canon stood, swaying slightly on the balls of his feet, legs slightly apart-the dominant stance. Whatever lecture he’d delivered, was at an end.
“I didn’t ask you for tea, Miss Cahill. I thought you’d have more than enough to do with the cleaning and the church flowers.”
“I used my own initiative, Canon and though that maybe you might both do with a cup of tea.”
Father Tom looked at her. His eyes were wide, and she could see he thought she was taking a chance speaking like that to the canon, especially in his present mood. Well, she was, and she didn’t care. Something had switched in her brain, and whether it would last or not, she didn’t know. But, at the moment, she wasn’t going to lay down and be walked over.
“Hmmm.” He cleared his throat as though making a point but said nothing, just rocked back and forwards once on his feet.
* * *
It was later, and as far as she could tell, all of the priests had retired for the night. This was the best time of the day for her, that and early morning when the house became her own, and she could let herself have a little fantasy-that she wasn’t beholden to the church for her job and her home. Then, she would catch sight of something, a biretta, a prayer book, the diary for baptisms and her sojourn to dreamland would end. She was a priest’s housekeeper. Her feet might feel on firm ground, but they were not. So, why was she pushing the canon in this way? He could dismiss her on a whim. He had all the power. She needed to pull back a bit. Her nest egg was growing, but with painful slowness. However hard she tried, she could only put a quarter of her wages into the post office. Sometimes, there was a bit extra. If she rang the bell in the church, she might get half a crown.
Sometimes, the canon “forgot” and though it angered her, that she put pride ahead of security, she never could bring herself to remind him. Visitors, like the bishop and missionary priests, sometimes, put a coin into her hand on departure. She would slip the money into her apron pocket when that happened, though a hot ball of humiliation would burn her chest.
She tapped on Father Tom’s bedroom door. He opened it, his sleeves rolled up, carpet slippers on his feet. A haunted expression hooded his eyes and the relief at finding she was his visitor, didn’t change the fact that he didn’t want to talk to anyone.
“Can I come in for a minute?” She hesitated for a second… “Tom,” It was an omission, and the canon would have been scandalised to high heaven, but she couldn’t call him, “father”. Not at this minute. He looked about sixteen.
He nodded, and she went across and sat on the one, Lloyd Loom chair, one small bit of decorative furniture in a very functional bedroom.
“Thank God the inspector released you.”
As she’d hoped, he sat on the bed, hands clasped together and hanging between his knees. His shoulders slumped, a picture of dejection.
“Tom, is there anything I can do to help?”
She kept her distance and her voice as calm as she could.
“My mother is coming tomorrow, That’s the last thing I wanted, Miss Cahill. I can’t be dealing with her at the moment; worrying and fussing over me.”
“Is she coming here?” it wasn’t the most important thing at present, goodness knew, but all the same, another example of the cavalier way she was treated…”
“No, thank God. She’s staying at Gillespie’s guest house. But, I wondered if maybe you…I don’t know, maybe you could talk to her or something. I don’t know what to do with her…”
Maggie frowned, unable to help herself. It was as though he didn’t want his mother to come. At the moment, he surely needed any bit of sympathy and support he could get?
“You get on with her, don’t you?”
She’s seen some of this kind of thing before, Usually, having a priest or nun in the family was the highest accolade a mother could gain. It brought its pressures too, though. You’d wonder sometimes at the genuine nature of the vocation. Father Tom? She’d not given it a lot of thought. He was kind and compassionate, and people thought the world of him.
That was just one side of the priesthood, though. The canon, for instance, you got the impression he couldn’t care less about how people felt, as long as their moral welfare was up to the mark and they said their prayers and observed the sacraments. It was an almost heretical thought, but you did wonder how important that side of things was to young Father Tom.
“The reason I came to see you…” How to express this without coming across as interfering, prying? “I’m in your corner, Father Tom. That’s what I’ve come to say. I’m glad that your mother is coming, and your mother is your best friend.”
He didn’t meet her eyes, just bowed his head further.
“I don’t know what it is you’re hiding, Tom, who it is that you might be protecting.”
He still didn’t look up, but she’d seen a sharp jerk of his shoulder.”
“You need to protect yourself, though, lad. Don’t find yourself taking the blame for something especially not something as big as this.”
“I wish there was something I could do…I wish.”
She held her breath, hovering on the edge of something…she had no idea what it was that lay over the edge that he was tottering on.
He stepped back sharply.
“I shouldn’t be talking like this to you. I mustn’t talk to anyone. I’m sorry. I think I need to be on my own for a while, now, Miss Cahill. I need to…I need to…pray.”
She lay the lightest of hands on his shoulder for a bare second and left the room.
* * *
“Are you all right, Maggie?” It was the last thing she felt like doing, but Maggie smiled. The tables were turned. Now, she was the person being drawn out. Not quite fair. Helen Brosnan was sincere when she said that she could be trusted. All morning, Maggie had felt slightly sick, and now, though part of her craved the spicy sweetness of the slice of barm brack, she couldn’t face it.
Another letter came this morning, and she had just about pocketed it before the canon pounced. She was always the person to see to the post, but ever since Simon Crowe’s murder, the man was everywhere; eyes and ears prying into your soul or so it seemed to her. He would quickly take in an English stamp and on a letter addressed to her too. He’d ask questions. The idea that she might have a right to a private life, anathema to him.
It had been along much the same lines as the first. It wasn’t in her nature to ignore problems. She was old and wise enough to realise that they didn’t go away, but she had ignored the first, and it couldn’t all be blamed on the extraordinary events in Ballytierney in recent days. No, she’d been burying her head in the sand and hoping it would go away—all the things you were not supposed to do.
Her heart thumped loudly now, and a feeling of suffocation followed close on it. If she started talking…but what had she told the young priest last night? She trusted this woman and keeping this thing a secret, was killing her. She had buried it and got on with her life for the past decades, but it had been easy when it wasn’t pushed in front of her. All had changed now,
Her voice was shaky, her attempt at humour weak.
“I suppose you could say that my past has come back to
haunt me.”
She glanced at her friend, sitting on the other side of the range. It was a dark afternoon, and Helen needed the lamp on the table alongside her to see the embroidery, she was sewing. It helped that part of her attention was focused on something else.
Maggie cleared her throat. If wild horses wouldn’t have dragged her story for her up to a few weeks ago, wild horses wouldn’t keep her from talking now.
“You know I lived in England?” Helen nodded.
“I went to train as a nurse. It was all I wanted to do, not that I had a clue what it entailed, but it had become a bit of an escape route for girls from my village. You can blame an older woman who had left years before and risen to the top of the profession. She became a nursing tutor and generations of girls were encouraged to follow her footsteps. I joined them, but my story took a different turn altogether.”
She looked at her friend, trying to gauge how she’d take the tale. Helen got up.
“I’m going to pour us out a sherry-bad cess to it. You can’t be sensible all your life.”
Maggie smiled—there was irony.
“I went to stay with a cousin of my mother.” Helen put a substantial glass of pale sherry on the table in front of Maggie.
She sipped it like it was nectar and it warmed her throat and even her insides.
“She was my mother’s cousin, Flo. They’d been close in their school days, but I didn’t know the woman from Adam. She was nice to me, I suppose, but very different from the women at home. Looking back on it, I was completely out of my depth and very, very lonely, though I wouldn’t have admitted it or even known it at the time.”
“You had more guts than I had at that age, Maggie. I couldn’t have left home, my sister, or my parents. I couldn’t have left my dog, for goodness sake.”
Maggie smiled.
“It didn’t feel brave When you’re young…well…you don’t see problems the same. So, there I was in an alien country, a family so different from my own I might have been in Timbuktu.”
Who said that the past was a foreign country and that they did things differently, there? EM Forster, that was it.
The Body at Ballytierney Page 8
