The Minstrel Boy

by A. J. Cronin

  She escorted them to the front door. Here, the Canon bowed and went down the steps. Madame gave Desmonde one swift, burning glance.

  ‘Three months is not forever. Remember that I love you.’

  Back at the presbytery, welcomed by Mrs O’Brien, the case of Dew safely in the hall, the Canon was himself again, and in an answer to his housekeeper on the question of supper, thoughtfully replied: ‘I had a chop or two at the Hib, sampled some of your sandwiches on the Quay and finished the remainder off with Patrick on the way home. However…?’

  ‘Something light, maybe, Canon. A sweetbread?’

  ‘The very thing, with a bit of cheese and a biscuit to follow.’

  Mrs O’B. smiled at Desmonde. ‘I believe you would like that, yourself, Father.’

  During supper the Canon, in the manner of Marco Polo, reverted to the rigours and hazards of the expedition. As regards the niece, he merely said:

  ‘She seemed a poor bit of a thing, half dead wi’ that awfu journey. And starved as weel. Onything she had to eat went ower the rail into the Irish Sea.’

  ‘She seemed terrified of her aunt.’

  ‘And with good reason. Onybody that does wrong to Madame knows what to expect.’ He paused to sip his Dew, perhaps a slightly larger portion than usual, because of the fresh stock on hand. ‘How did you get on yerself today, with Madame?’

  ‘Wonderfully.’ It was the appropriate moment. Desmonde rose from the table. ‘Canon, I am deputed by Madame Donovan to inform you that before the end of the year you will have altar rails of the finest Carrara marble.’

  As though electrified, the Canon sat, motionless, then he sprang to his feet.

  ‘Oh, thank God! And thank you, Desmonde. I kenned ye would do it, that Madame would do anything for ye.’ He put his arms on Desmonde’s shoulder and embraced him. ‘Oh, glory be to God, and to Madame, we’ll have the finest church, all complete, in the whole of Ireland. Wait till I tell Canon Mooney in Cork. He’s aye been sneerin’ at our auld rails, the Carrara will kill him. Oh, I must get on the phone instantly to Madame, to thank her…’

  ‘No, Canon, wait. She’s not in the mood now with the niece just back on her. Compose one of your beautiful letters overnight and send Michael down with it in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, you’re right, lad, right as usual. I’m in no fit state. But I’ll phone Mooney, ’twill give him a bad night. And I’ll give Mrs O’B. the great news straight away. Och, lad, I’ll never forget you for this, never, never. Sit down by the fire, I’ll be back in two ticks, then we’ll talk it all over from beginning to end.’

  And the Canon, his Dew forgotten, dashed through the door, and downstairs to the kitchen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Madame had gone and the days seemed less bright. No longer did her charming, attractive figure adorn the church. Instead, the little end pew held only a solemn faced Patrick and a subdued, sulky Claire. Sadly missed, too, was the generous hospitality of the Mount.

  ‘It’s no’ quite the same without her,’ the Canon commented more than once, adding: ‘I hope she hasn’t forgotten her promise.’

  Madame had not forgotten. Towards the end of the second week two architects arrived and, without delay, began their operations in the church, measuring, calculating, discussing, and with a silence more cutting than speech, ignoring the Canon’s suggestions and proposals, which would undoubtedly have ruined the entire project. They conversed only with Desmonde, in rapid Italian, that had the warmth of expatriates discovering their own language, spoken perfectly, in a foreign town. And from these exchanges Desmonde was able to assure his Superior that all would be perfect, both in quality and design.

  Indeed, after three days, before the two strangers departed, they presented the Canon with a skilfully tinted design, a picture, in fact, of the finished work. The Canon gazed, and was immediately in ecstasy.

  ‘’Tis beautiful, ’tis superb, oh, dear Lord, it is heavenly!’

  Looking over his shoulder, Desmonde was equally enchanted. A superb curve of veined white marble, supported, in groups of three, by delicate yellow pilasters, saved from over elaboration by a median gate of beaten bronze.

  ‘You were right, Desmonde, lad, to leave them to it – they’re experts, artists, ah! what a joy ’twill be when it’s here. Did they mention when the work would start?’

  ‘Almost at once, Canon. They asked me where their men’ could stay – the Station Hotel, I thought…’

  ‘Ay, they’ll get dacent rooms there. I’ll see to it I’ll speak to Dolan myself.’

  Hugging the drawing, the worthy old man went immediately to the church porch and hung it there for all to admire.

  Every week now, on Tuesdays and Fridays, the Canon, accompanied by his curate, made the pilgrimage to the deserted Mount to see that Madame’s instructions were being strictly observed.

  On the Tuesday following the departure of the Italians, the Canon and his curate took their leisurely walk to the Mount, the Canon remarking as they approached the house: ‘’Tis like a body without a soul.’

  Patrick, as usual, anticipating their visit, met them at the front entrance.

  ‘Well, how is your charge today, Patrick?’

  ‘As usual, I’m afraid, your reverence. Miserable all the time, nothing to do, naebody to talk to, barring ourselves, she wanders around like a knotless thread.’

  ‘No letters written or received?’

  ‘None whatsoever, your reverence. Not a scrape of a pen. I check the post carefully myself.’

  ‘Does she not take up a book?’

  ‘She’s not a reader, Canon.’ Patrick hesitated. ‘Don’t you think, your reverence, that Madame is just a bit over severe with her? With all respect, that’s the opinion of ourselves in the kitchen. She’s a slip of a thing who’s been a bit wayward maybe but there’s many o’ us makes mistakes when we’re young. Why, Madame has even forbidden the glass of light wine to her lunch that she’s used to at her school. She’s no appetite without it. Don’t you think t’would be a kindness to let her have just one glass o’ the Barsac we have on occasions ourselves, mild stuff, from Findlater’s in Dublin?’

  The Canon pondered, glanced at Desmonde.

  ‘I say no.’ The response came firmly. ‘Madame must be obeyed.’

  ‘Weel,’ said the Canon slowly, ‘I say yes. Justice must be tempered with mercy.’

  ‘Thank you. Canon,’ Patrick said. ‘She’ll maybe eat a bit now. She’s up by the tennis court if ye wish to see her.’

  He led the way through the house and out across the rose garden to the pavilion. On the court, dressed in her ordinary blouse and skirt, Claire was making the best of her solitary state, to serving six balls from the far end of the court, walking slowly to the near side, collecting the balls, then carelessly, absently, banging them back again.

  ‘That’s no sort of a game!’ growled the Canon, and after a further listless volley, he touched Desmonde on the shoulder. ‘For pete’s sake, lad, take your coat off, get a bat and knock the balls back to her.’

  ‘I have no racquet’

  ‘There’s plenty in the pavilion.’ Patrick disappeared, and was back in a moment with a brand new racquet. ‘’Tis a good one, a Spalding.’

  Desmonde stripped off his jacket and stepped on to the court, where he was greeted by a surprised, welcoming smile.

  ‘I’m not much good,’ he said. ‘But I’ll try and give you a game.’

  They started off with a knock up. She began by moderating the speed of her serves, and he in turn served with an underhand stroke. Desmonde had a good eye and soon they had some creditable rallies that provoked applause from the spectators. Finally they played a set which Desmonde, still serving underhand, lost, though only by six games to four.

  The change in Claire was remarkable, she looked a different girl as she followed her opponent from the court. Flushed and smiling, she thanked, in turn, the Canon, Desmonde, and finally Patrick.

  ‘It’s just what I’ve bee
n longing for,’ she added.

  ‘Father Desmonde looks the better o’ it, too,’ commented Patrick. ‘Maybe you’ll let him play again, Canon, when he comes down.’

  ‘I sanction it.’ The Canon nodded amiably. ‘But look at the way he’s sweatin’. He’ll need tennis claes.’

  ‘There’s plenty o’ them. Madame had white shirts and shoes and pants in the lockers – for the office fellas when they visit us. I’ll have Bridget wash and iron a set o’ them.’

  Claire’s eyes had brightened. She’s nothin’ like as bad as Madame makes out, thought the Canon. Madame can be gey hard, ay, hard as steel, when she’s crossed. And, aloud:

  ‘I perceive it’s been dull and miserable for ye, missie. We’ll ease up a bit on ye now. If Father Desmonde is free, he’ll give you a game Thursday. Away now, and get yourself shifted, you’re all sweatin’!’

  They watched her run down to the back door of the house where she turned to wave to them.

  ‘I’m in the same condition.’ Desmonde laughed. ‘ Wringing wet. Perhaps Patrick would drive us home.’

  ‘’Twould suit me,’ said the Canon, who was not looking forward to the uphill walk back to the presbytery.

  ‘I’ll see that the water is turned on in the pavilion,’ Patrick murmured to Desmonde, as he led the way to the garage. ‘You’ll get a dacent shower after your game Thursday.’

  The two visitors were driven off, suffused by a comfortable feeling of a kindly act, well done. Watching from the window of her little bedroom, Claire felt happy, for the first time in many weeks.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The following Thursday was wet and the official visit to Mount

  Vernon was postponed. In the forenoon Desmonde worked with

  the Canon over the quarterly accounts, writing off the expenses of

  the presbytery against the income from the church collections. The

  balance was small indeed, so small that the Canon shook his head. ‘We’d never manage to keep things going, Desmonde, if ’twasn’t

  for Madame. Think of all that she gives us, or pays for. The fine

  wax candles, lovely vestments and flowers, the heating and lighting,

  even the incense. And now, them wonderful rails.’ He paused. ‘I

  wonder how she is now, over there?’

  As if in answer to the Canon’s query, the noon mail delivery

  brought a letter from Switzerland, addressed to Desmonde, who

  immediately read it aloud to his Superior. My dear Desmonde, I have been frantically busy since my arrival here, but now I seize a moment to unburden my troubled lonely heart and also to inform you that all arrangements for the new altar rails have been completed. You must tell the good Canon that I have sanctioned the proposed design, it is quite lovely. I have also chosen the various marbles, also superbly beautiful, and now Signor Moreno, head of the Moreno Company, has just telephoned to say that all these precious goods have been crated, and will be shipped by freighter direct to Cork one week from today. Accompanying them will be four of his best workmen who will see to the delivery of the crates, unpack and instal the marbles. This should take a week or ten days, so perhaps the good Canon will accordingly reserve rooms for the men. I suggest the Station Hotel. Tell Dolan to give

  them rice and macaroni dishes – that’s their usual diet.

  Amongst all my longings, I cannot wait to see my lovely gift actually in being, in my lovely church, and to kneel there, to receive the Sacrament from your dear hands, dearest Desmonde, what joy, spiritual and, yes, temporal – but of the purest ray serene.

  Desmonde flushed and paused, looking across at the Canon, who nodded understandingly, saying: ‘I know, lad, I know. If it hadna’ been for you I might have waited long enough …’

  Desmonde resumed. Nor must we forget our worthy Canon, who will soon be in a position to exult over his friendly enemy in Cork.

  The Canon chuckled. ‘She kens aal… What a woman!’

  The letter continued. On other matters of less importance, I have had a most unpleasant time, interviewing Major Coulter, Claire’s late headmaster, who, in addition to lecturing me, as if I were to blame, on the adverse publicity suffered by his school through Claire’s escapades, presented me with a sheaf of bills sent to the school after her departure, debts unofficially incurred by my darling niece, for showy dresses, a bead necklace and white gloves, all quite unnecessary. To put it as charitably as possible, she seems to have no sense whatsoever, not only of the standards of common decency, but of the value of money, particularly when it is not her own. I do trust that, with the Canon, you are supervising her behaviour and ensuring that she doesn‘ t communicate with her former confederates, or get into mischief here.

  Again the Canon intervened. ‘Isn’t that just what we’re doin’, and seein’ to, forbye, that she stays in good health?’

  Desmone concluded. And now dear friends with all good wishes, I must say au revoir. Let me know at once when the shipment arrives.

  Most sincerely yours, Geraldine Donovan

  Desmonde hesitated, then folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. A postscript had caught his eye which he thought wiser not to disclose.

  Desmonde, I cannot sleep. I, who always slept peacefully, soundly as a child, lie awake at night, often for hours, une nuit blanche, thinking, thinking … of whom? Write to me soon, my darling.

  Gerry

  Leaving the Canon to his final additions, Desmonde rose and went to the church to kneel before the tabernacle, always his solace and comforter, his refuge in every difficulty. He prayed that Madame’s insomnia might yield to refreshing sleep, but beyond all, he prayed that their mutual love might be restrained, to remain within the bounds prescribed by Holy Church. For himself, he had no fear, but as for his dear, dear friend, his patroness, the postscript of her letter troubled him. He promised himself, and Heaven too, that his reply to the letter, while no less affectionate than before, would be tempered by a cautionary prudence.

  The children were now beginning to assemble for his Confirmation class, among them the little ones he had brought on for Holy Communion. The Bishop’s visit was not due until late September, a week or ten days after Madame’s return, but Desmonde, who wanted his pupils to shine before his Lordship, had started early. Assuring himself that the glass jar, in the cupboard behind the side altar, was still amply stocked. Desmonde began his instruction, which went on until noon.

  The sun continued to shine and at lunch the Canon remarked:

  ‘You better do Vernon this afternoon, lad. ’Twill take us over the week-end.’ Then as Desmonde looked at him inquiringly: ‘I have a four o’clock C. C. meeting on my hands. And to tell the truth, I don’t care for that stiff uphill walk on the way back, instead of my usual nap. So you might as well run down yourself in future, see that all goes well, and have your bit of a game forbye.’

  Desmonde, accordingly, made his way alone to the Mount, arriving soon after two o’clock.

  Claire, already on the court in short white ballet skirt and singlet, greeted him joyously.

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Father Desmonde. I was desolate yesterday. Patrick has put your togs all ready in the pavilion, and he’s most decently given us new balls. So do hurry and change.’

  Desmonde went into the pavilion. As promised, everything was there, beautifully washed and pressed: white flannels and singlet, white sweater and blancoed shoes. An inviting sight. In four minutes flat, Desmonde emerged, transformed.

  ‘I say, you do look spiffing!’ Claire’s dark eyes had widened. ‘Absolute Wimbledon.’

  ‘All but my game, Claire.’

  ‘We’ll see to that! Now, come on, the first thing is to teach you the overhand serve. No more popping the ball over, underhand, as Auntie might do if she tried it.’

  The lesson began. Desmonde was an apt pupil, he felt so free and easy in his light clothing, and soon Claire decided that the set might begin. Her serves came crashing in, unsparingly,
until at last Desmonde learned to time and return them. His own serve began to take shape, affording him the delicious sensation of a brand new ball, hit hard and true with the centre of a first class racquet.

  Claire took the first set six games to one, and the second six to two. Half way through the third, Patrick appeared with a jug of iced lemonade and glasses on a tray, which he placed on a table in the veranda of the pavilion.

  ‘You are kind, Patrick,’ Desmonde said, coming to the net. ‘Please thank Bridget for doing my things so nicely. And thank you for the new balls.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to see your reverence lookin’ so well, ye know, you were quite pale and peaky for a while, just before Madame left. As for the niece, the good exercise has made her a different cratur.’

  He waited, watching the game resumed, then joined Bridget, who had a vantage point by the pantry window.

  ‘They’re a beautiful pair out there,’ Bridget commented. ‘But … do you think it’s quite in order, quite safe, so to speak, to let them be thegither… alone?’

  ‘Ah, they’re just playin’ like a couple of children.’

  ‘Madame wouldn’t like it, Pat.’

  ‘What Madame doesn’t see won’t grieve her. It’s my opinion she’s been far too hard on the girl. Ever since we’ve been kind to her she’s blossomed like the rose.’

  ‘Cut the poetry, Shakespeare! Ye never ca’ed me a rose. Ah, well… ah, well. Just look at that Father Desmonde, there. Anybody but a blind man would see she has fallen for him. He would turn the head and the heart of any wumman, young or old.’ Moving off, she added a parting shot. ‘As Madame could well tell ye.’

  When the third set was over, the players retired to a bench on the veranda and poured the lemonade.

  ‘I did enjoy that,’ Desmonde said. ‘And I’ve always rather stupidly despised ball games.’

  ‘There’s one or two of them warrant investigation.’ Claire put both feet on the railing, leaning slightly back to allow the breeze to exert its full cooling effect which was, indeed, assisted by a slight billowing of her short skirt. Hurriedly, Desmonde averted his eyes from the delectable vision thus revealed.