The Minstrel Boy

by A. J. Cronin

  Desmonde sat up. ‘You can’t mean it. She was no more than twenty-four or five.’

  ‘Add another ten to that, lad, and ye’ll just about hit Madame’s age. She is a fine woman in body and spirit. And young in heart. Forbye, she takes care of herself, she does look young.’

  ‘So, she is actually the head, the owner of … everything …’

  ‘When you know Madame’s story, if ever she tells it tae ye – and I cannot, for I’m her confessor – you’ll fully understand the way she’s capable to rare her business, control it, and a’ her other affairs, with a will of iron.’

  ‘I can believe that! The way she stared at me.’

  ‘Now, don’t be hasty, lad. I’ve an idea she has taken tae ye. When we chatted after Mass she invited you to tea, Tuesday, at Mount Vernon.’

  ‘It shows her manners when she invites me second-hand.’

  ‘Again, don’t be hasty, lad. I’ll warrant you a written invite comes by Patrick – that’s her butler – when he’s up for Benediction. Now wait and see if I’m right or wrong.’

  The Canon’s prediction was fully justified. At half past six that evening, Desmonde opened a sealed envelope, unfolded a sheet of finest quality hand-made note paper, embossed in block letters with the address: Mount Vernon, Kilbarrack.

  Dear Fr Fitzgerald,

  If your clerical duties permit, would you come to me for tea at four o’clock next Tuesday?

  Sincerely,

  Geraldine Donovan

  ‘What cheek,’ Desmonde muttered. ‘What bloody awful cheek. Would you come. I’ll show her I’m not her lackey!’

  Chapter Four

  The fine weather continued and Tuesday was sunny with a refreshing breeze that sent fleecy clouds chasing each other across the sun. Desmonde had been fully occupied during the morning and after lunch he decided to take a siesta. He lay down on his bed in his underwear with an eye on the clock, not to ensure punctuality but because of his determination to be late for his command appointment at Mount Vernon.

  He had a nap, rested for a further half hour, then got up, shaved, washed and brushed his hair. He then put on his fine light Caraccini suit, with a clean shirt and collar. The result was satisfactory, indeed, pleasing, and as the clock now showed four o’clock, he set out in leisurely fashion for his destination.

  When he passed through the wide gateway of Mount Vernon and advanced up the broad drive it was in fact almost half-past four. He did not hurry. The house was now in view, a fine Georgian house, with a pillared portico such as may be seen in many an Irish estate. But this house differed, in that its immaculate appearance indicated a care and maintenance rarely, if ever, seen in the run-down dilapidated quasi-historic mansions of the Emerald Isle. The long double row of windows gleamed, the frames freshly painted, as was the door on which the heavy brasses shone, the sloping roof immaculate and in front a cut stone terrace with balustrade, obviously an addition, which completed a picture worthy of the front page of Country life.

  Desmonde mounted the steps and rang the bell. The door was opened by an elderly manservant, not in tails, but in a livery waistcoat, who showed the visitor into a large hall, the marble squares superbly covered by a Kirman Lavar flower carpet which Desmonde, as his feet sank into it, correctly deemed to be of the seventeenth century. A fine Lavery portrait of an elderly man hung on the near wall above a silver-laden Chippendale side table, while on the opposite wall there was a portrait of a woman in fancy dress by the same hand. At the rear of the hall a lovely broad staircase swept gracefully up, with a statue, probably Greek, on the landing, while below, two wide passages led away from the hall to the right and to the left.

  Following his mentor to the right Desmonde did not fail to observe through an open door the comfortable library, appropriately lined with volumes.

  At the end of the corridor he was shown into a large domed apartment which had once been the great conservatory of the mansion but which, with skill and taste, had now been converted to a variety of drawing room known in Ireland as the saloon. Again, Persian, or perhaps Chinese, rugs, faded with antiquity, littered the parquet floor. A grand piano, open, at one end, silk covered settees and armchairs on either side, flowers everywhere in careless abundance, suffused, too, by the warmth and radiance and the April sun, it was a rococo setting sufficiently overpowering to the uninitiated visitor.

  At the far end a slender, elegant woman was seated at a small buhl table, reading. Her complexion was pale, carefully tended, her features fine and regular, her expression, even while she read, firm and composed, her beautiful chestnut hair in a bobbed shingle which intensified her youthful appearance. She was perhaps rather more than thirty, simply yet beautifully gowned in dark grey silk, entirely without ornament but quite strikingly, adorned by an oriental scarf of grey and scarlet silk.

  Desmonde, by no means overpowered, had given his hat to the servant who admitted him and was now standing quite erect, hands by his side. Indeed for some moments he stood thus, silent and still, delightfully aware that, as he had intended, his lateness had annoyed her.

  At last, having failed to force him into some rustic gaffe, she looked up, but did not rise. After studying him for a further moment, with critical unfriendly eyes, not neglecting to note, however, the smart Roman cut of his clerical suit in which, she was obliged to admit, he looked stunningly handsome, she said coldly:

  ‘So you are our new curate.’

  ‘I believe so, Madame.’ He did not move.

  ‘I hear that, for a playboy, you are good with babies.’

  ‘If you hear nothing worse of me, Madame, I shall be grateful.’

  She half smiled, yet suppressed it.

  ‘Since you are apparently known in the town, affectionately, as Father Desmonde, shall I so address you?’

  ‘I could not so presume at our first meeting, Madame, but later I might be worthy of your affection.’

  Feeling that she was getting the worse of these exchanges, she said:

  ‘Sit down.’

  He did so, quietly, easily, without affectation. She continued to study him, with her clear steel-grey eyes.

  ‘At least you are a change from our late curate. I had him to tea. Only once. It was enough. He sat on one corner of his chair, lips clamped together, his cup clanking in his hand, speechless with fright.’

  ‘At least he was not a playboy, Madame.’

  ‘No, he was not. A good, hard-working priest, dull as ditch-water. I rejoice that he has been given his own little parish. Would you like tea?’

  Desmonde smiled: his beautiful smile.

  ‘I came here in the expectation of your justly famous tea. I am glad you won’t disappoint me.’

  She pulled the wall cord beside her chair and put down her book, a superbly bound copy of the Imitation, saying:

  ‘My Kempis came from your father. I knew him and liked him greatly.’

  ‘I thank you, Madame. For my father, and from myself.’

  Almost at once tea was brought in by the manservant. He carefully put down the heavy silver tray with its service of antique Spode and a three-tiered cake stand.

  ‘Thank you, Patrick.’

  He bowed and went out, shutting the doors silently behind him. Beginning to pour the tea, she remarked:

  ‘Irish servants are the best in the world, Father, if you train them. If you don’t, if you spoil them, they are the worst. Remember that, in your dealings with the presbytery staff.’

  ‘Our good Mrs O’Brien is more likely to spoil us than to be spoiled.’

  She seemed to regard this as a mild rebuke, but said:

  ‘I have no wish to be spoiled. Or to be surrounded by flunkeys. The good Patrick is my butler and chauffeur, his wife, Bridget, my excellent cook, aided in the kitchen by Maureen, a local girl. For my simple garden the son of one of my farmers comes to attend to it three times a week.’

  He received this information in complete silence, as though he considered it redundant or even in rather
bad taste.

  She was obliged, therefore, to turn her attention to the tray.

  ‘Cream? Sugar?’

  He made a quiet gesture of negation.

  The cup she handed to him, pure and undefiled, was hot, fragrant, delicious. She watched him sip it like a connoisseur as she sipped her own, then raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘Irish tea is always good, Madame. But this, like manna, must come from heaven.’

  ‘No, from a special plantation in Ceylon, shipped direct to us here. What would you like to eat?’

  He took two of the wafer thin watercress sandwiches. They were delicious. Then put down his plate.

  ‘What! No cake? Bridget won’t sleep tonight if you don’t take a slice. I thought all curates liked cake.’ Obediently, he took a slice of the rich home-made cake, saying:

  ‘Not only curates. The clergy, in general.’ He went on to relate, quite amusingly, the episode of Fr Beauchamp and the chocolate cake. But, reminding herself that she had meant to be severe with this young priestling, she barely smiled.

  ‘I don’t care to hear a good priest ridiculed. I once heard your Father Beauchamp preach a sermon that was truly memorable.’

  ‘In Winton, Madame?’

  ‘Yes. I was briefly in that city.’

  Desmonde was silent, swept by the strange and indeed incomprehensible conviction that once before, briefly, he had seen this remarkable woman, who was now offering him his second cup of tea.

  ‘I am still waiting for your horrendous impression of Kilbarrack. It must be a shock to you after Rome.’

  ‘It is not a shock, Madame, for I am as Irish as your dear good self. What is a shock, a great undreamed-of joy, is the truly beautiful, the superb, church in which I am permitted to serve our Blessed Lord. Nor can I forbear to add, the unexpected pleasure of this invitation, to take tea at her house, with the blessed donor of the church.’

  ‘What a lot of words, Father Desmonde!’

  ‘Yes, I’m a fool when I’m deeply moved, I spoil it all with a tirade. Simply, I love, and adore the church and bless the giver of it.’

  ‘I love my church too, Father Desmonde. That is what keeps me in this remote part of Ireland, that and my house which I also love. For ever since my husband’s death I am a woman of many affairs, with fully staffed headquarters in Dublin. I must go there often. Yet, with a direct private wire I make many of my decisions here, and go as seldom as possible.’ She paused. ‘But why am I speaking of myself?’

  ‘Because I am listening with the greatest interest and attention. Madame, you may have heard weird and untrue stories of me from Rome. I was merely polite. And bored. But now, to be in my own country, in the society of an Irish lady, so charming and fastidious, so noble and … oh, heavens dear Madame Donovan, you must stop me … I came determined to be as rude to you as you were to me in church on Sunday. I have just so loved being with you this afternoon, that I have run away with myself again.’ He stood up. ‘And its time now for me to leave … I have Benediction tonight and the good Canon insists on punctuality.’

  ‘Then you must come earlier next time.’ She smiled, warmly, and stood up. ‘I’ll walk with you to the door.’

  She stood with him for a moment on the paved portico. The first distant stars were already showing through the still warm air.

  ‘Is it not heavenly?’ she breathed. ‘A heavenly evening. If you are late Patrick will drive you.’

  ‘Thank you, no, Madame. I shall enjoy the walk.’

  ‘We have a short cut through the upper wood to the church. One day I will show you. Good-night, Desmonde.’ She gave him her soft warm hand.

  ‘Good-night, dear Madame.’

  She watched him go smartly down the drive, hoping suddenly, strangely, that he would turn back to look.

  He turned and looked back.

  When he had vanished between the high pillars of the gate, she went to her room and looked at herself, all warm and glowing, in the mirror. It was a pleasant sight, she half smiled, then moving away sharply, she said, out loud:

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Gerry. Please don’t!’

  Chapter Five

  Desmonde, not a notable walker, was a full six minutes late for Benediction. But after the service, when he appeared at the Presbytery, the worthy Canon, usually a stickler in the manner of punctuality, chose to ignore the peccadillo. And later, as they sat down to dinner, he unfurled his napkin with a flourish, tucked it securely around his neck, and smiled.

  ‘You had a nice time with her ladyship, lad?’

  ‘Delightful, Canon. I’m afraid I overstayed my leave.’

  ‘Ah, what of it! Did she … sort of, as ye might say, take to ye?’

  ‘After her preliminary attempt to take me down a few pegs, she was most kind. In fact we got on famously.’

  ‘I kenned ye would, I kenned ye would.’ The Canon chuckled, as he took up the carvers and slashed through the crackling of a promising leg of lamb. ‘All in a good cause, Desmonde, lad.’

  During the next few days there was no word from Mount Vernon. On Sunday the main ten o’clock Mass was normally reserved by the Canon for himself since the later hour gave him time to prepare his thunderbolts and a much larger congregation on which to discharge them. The earlier sparsely attended eight o’clock service was therefore taken by Desmonde.

  On the following Sunday as he came to the altar he could not fail to observe that the sacrosanct reserved pew at the end of the front seat was occupied by Madame Donovan, who normally came at eleven o’clock. She was wearing a short black cashmere coat cut in a military style with a wide collar and flap pockets, pleated skirt, silk stockings and stitched shoes, and on her head, a chic black cloche hat, worn low on the forehead. She looked a full ten years younger than her age, and to say that she was smart would be a vulgar understatement. In any of the fashionable Paris churches she would have drawn admiring glances.

  During the Mass Desmonde did not once look towards her, but at Holy Communion when she came forward and knelt at the little wooden altar rails, looking up as he placed the sacred wafer between her parted lips, her eyes remained open and met his in a spiritual exchange that was touching and sweet.

  In the vestry, as he disrobed, he saw that the Mount Vernon closed landaulette stood outside, and when he emerged she was waiting on him, brisk and slightly impatient.

  ‘I am driving to Dublin today. Important business that I must see to. Will you let the Canon know? I shall be at the Shelbourne, as usual, for ten days or thereabouts.’ Suddenly she smiled, showing her small, white, even teeth. ‘By the way, my spies inform me that you got a thorough drenching on your rounds the other morning. Haven’t you a raincoat?’

  ‘It’s not a garment much worn in Rome.’ Desmonde laughed, and his teeth were quite as attractive. ‘I have the parochial umbrella, a tremendous canopy which blows inside out with delightful facility.’

  ‘You must have a raincoat,’ she said, laughing. ‘If not in Rome, it’s a garment much worn in Kilbarrack. Now, au revoir.’ She held out her hand.

  After the Sacrament he could not do more than gently press her fingers. But when she had gone he knelt and, before beginning his office, said a prayer that she might journey safely on the crowded Sunday roads. And return soon.

  Life moved on normally for the next few days, during which Desmonde became more and more conscious of the absence of his new friend. But on the Thursday, evidence that she had not forgotten him came by express delivery in the form of a superb new raincoat. A Burberry, quietly grey in colour, and, when he tried it on before the expectant Canon, a perfect fit.

  ‘It’s the very thing for ye, lad. Downright handsome, and that clerical grey is just right.’ He smoothed the fine proofed gabardine, well pleased by this sign of interest from Madame Donovan. ‘She’s taken to you. Desmonde, and later on, if you watch your step, she might listen if ye bring up the matter of the altar rails.’

  Desmonde was silent. He had already made up his mind to trea
t this oppressive and delicate matter with great reserve.

  Six days later, evidence of Madame Donovan’s return reached the presbytery: a telephone call asking both Desmonde and the Canon to lunch on the following Sunday.

  The Canon was pleased but gave his regrets, accepting only for his curate.

  ‘It’s yourself Madame wants to see, Desmonde. And you know how I enjoy my nap after the Sunday dinner.’

  So Desmonde set off alone for Mount Vernon, bare headed and wearing, as a gesture of gratitude, his fine new raincoat. As he came up the wide drive Madame was strolling on the terrace, very informal, in a pink blouse and grey linen skirt, a straw garden hat strapped under her chin. She held out both hands with a smile.

  ‘Good heavens! Is it raining?’

  ‘Madame, the weather is irrelevant. I am modelling your delightful gift so that you may admire it.’

  ‘I do admire it. And you! You look most unclerical, like a young fawn disguised as an advertisement for Burberrys. Now, take it off at once.’

  He did so, thanking her simply. She took the coat, folded it over one arm, and offered him the other. ‘Now we must saunter for at least ten minutes or Bridget will be serving everything half raw.’

  They began to walk up and down on tie terrace.

  ‘You were absent longer than I had hoped,’ Desmonde said.

  ‘There was an annoyance that I had to squash.’ As he looked at her inquiringly she went on: ‘Some enterprising little Japs in Tokyo, already making bogus Scotch whisky and selling it under faked Scottish names, like “ Highland Fling” and “The Sporran”, have now turned their attention to Irish whisky. In bottles similar to ours, practically the same labels, they have titled their rot-gut stuff “Mountain Cream”.’ She paused. ‘ Of course it does not bear comparison with our superb matured malt whisky, but the confusion is damaging.’

  ‘You sued them?’

  ‘In Tokyo! Good heavens, no. And I’ve had enough of law suits. No, I simply sent out an S.O.S. to all our agents, dealers, and wholesalers that if they stocked and sold the Japanese imitation they would cease to act for us.’ She paused. ‘ Before I left Dublin we had been flooded with obedient consenting cables, telegrams and express letters.’ Abruptly she dismissed the subject. ‘Are you hungry, after your walk?’