The Minstrel Boy

by A. J. Cronin

  And so, within the hour, Desmonde stood with a very frightened Claire while, in the presence of Mrs O’Brien, the Canon solemnly read the service and made them man and wife. He then blessed them and abruptly turned away. Only Mrs O’Brien remained, and with tears in her eyes kissed first Claire then Desmonde.

  ‘Kneel down both of the two of you and pray for God to bless you in your marriage, as I will pray for you myself.’

  The poor old Canon, indeed, was at the end of his tether. He offered no resistance when the following day, Saturday, was hurriedly fixed for Desmonde’s departure. Claire made her preparations and took the tickets, while Mrs O’Brien packed Desmonde’s things, weeping at the memory of the happy day of his arrival. Desmonde forced himself to make, as he then thought, a final visit to Mount Vernon, to say good-bye to Patrick and Bridget.

  Everything was accomplished quietly and well, since Desmonde wished, above all, to make his exit in peace. Alas, on the morrow, when the farewells were over and he was in the cab with Claire, driving to the station, the sound of the fife and drum band burst suddenly upon his ears, the cab was surrounded by marching men, the horse loosed from the traces, and replaced by men on either side of the shafts. Then, as the band struck up ‘Wearing o’ the Green’, with redoubled vigour, the cab slowly rolled off.

  ‘Oh, God, Des!’ Claire cried in high glee. ‘They’re pulling us to the station, giving us the royal send off. What an honour. What fun! And look at the banners!’

  Now that the horse was gone, the processional Hibernian banners held aloft were clearly visible, each covered with a white sheet on which, in black paint, slogans had been splashed.

  GOOD LUCK TO OUR DES

  WE LOVE YOU DES. HAPPY WEDDING

  FAREWELL DEAR MINSTREL BOY

  CHANGE THE LAW LET OUR PRIESTS WED

  Claire was beside herself with pride and delight. When, finally, they were out of the cab and in the train, she lowered the window of the compartment, waved and blew kisses to the sea of faces below, then taking Desmonde’s hand she drew him beside her.

  How the cheers, rang out! Three for Desmonde. Three for Claire. Then a voice shouted: ‘Three for the baby.’

  This set the crowd into a turbulence of laughter and cheers. Then, as the train started slowly to move, all else was stilled and the band struck up fortissimo: ‘Will ye no’ come back again?’ In this manner did Fr Desmonde Fitzgerald take leave of his parish in Kilbarrack.

  Part Four

  Chapter One

  Before leaving Kilbarrack Desmonde had wisely written to his father’s old housekeeper, Mrs Mullen, now indeed a very aged though still active woman, asking her to find him a decent three room and kitchen apartment well situated on the Quays. Desmonde knew the Quays since boyhood and felt that he might find there a simple and quiet retreat until he knew more clearly what lay ahead for his wife and himself. By the same post he had also written to the former headmaster of his preparatory school, St Brendan’s.

  When the happy couple arrived at the station Desmonde took a taxi direct to the Quays, Claire viewing the busy streets en route with delighted anticipation.

  ‘Dear old Dublin! Here we come!’

  At Mrs Mullen’s the bridal pair were welcomed with less enthusiasm, the old woman’s face expressed concern and bewilderment, but she had found a modest furnished house almost next door, which she thought might suit, and towards which, after she had draped a shawl about her, she conducted them.

  Desmonde, who had expected the worst, was relieved and pleased as he viewed the three rooms, not ill-furnished, and the bathroom with hot and cold taps. As the rent was reasonable he immediately took it for a preliminary six months and had the luggage brought in from the waiting cab. Mrs Mullen, dismissed with the present of a pound, promised to tell the landlord to send the lease.

  ‘Well, darling,’ Desmonde exclaimed cheerfully, ‘how do you like our new home?’

  ‘It’s not what I’m used to, Des. It’s low.’

  ‘I think we’re lucky to get it, so soon.’

  ‘You’re used to this low class district, Des. You were born here. But I was brought up in more lady-like surroundings.’

  Ignoring this, Desmonde said.

  ‘Well, how about stocking up with some grub? As I remember, there’s not a bad little grocer’s on the next corner.’

  ‘Then you go, Des. I want to unpack and rest. Do remember my condition, dear.’

  Desmonde went out to Kelly’s little corner shop, where, fortunately, he was not recognised, and bought tea, coffee extract, milk and sugar, bread, tomatoes, plain biscuits, a pot of Robertson’s marmalade, cheese, butter, some slices of cold ham, bacon and a dozen eggs. Pleased with this substantial cash order, the aproned proprietor, no longer John Kelly, agreed to send the boy round with them at once.

  If Desmonde expected congratulations for this neat show of efficiency he was disappointed.

  ‘Look, Des, look, will ye.’ Exposing a dress somewhat creased, Claire continued: ‘That bitch of a Bridget that I told to pack my things has made a rag of my lovely new muslin.’

  ‘Won’t the creases iron out, dear?’

  ‘Where’s the iron? Will ye oblige me by telling me? No, ’twill have to go to the cleaners.’

  At this point came a knock at the door. It was the boy ‘with the messages’.

  ‘Well, let’s have some grub, darling, we’ll both feel better after that. Would you like to knock up something while I unpack?’

  Claire stared with hostility at the packages on the table.

  ‘I must tell you at the beginning, Des, I’m not the cook and washerwoman type. I’ve been well brought up and I’m not used to it. Why don’t we just nip up to the Hibernian for supper?’

  ‘And come back to find the bed not made up, all the sheets and blankets still in the hall out there, and my clothes still unpacked!’

  ‘Ah, Des, you’re lovely when you get a bit red and excited.’ She stretched out her arms. ‘ Come and kiss me, love. Wasn’t it darling in the train, all the little bumps helping us up and down and in and out. And ye’re right, we must get the bed sorted. I’ll do it, if you make the supper.’ Desmonde had set two eggs to boil on the little scullery gas stove and was beginning to lay the table when loud lamentations drew him, running, to the front room.

  ‘It’s the bed, darling. It’s been taken down, the bits are all over, and so heavy I can’t shift them.’

  It was one of those old Irish beds, solid oak and large enough to hold a family.

  Desmonde approached the backboard.

  ‘Let’s try this first, and get it against the wall.’

  Together, straining hard, they lifted the bed which seemed to weigh a ton, until Claire, with a gasp, let go her end. With a thunderous crash the backboard resumed its situation, flat on the floor.

  ‘We’ll need help, Des. It’s too much for us.’

  ‘We must do it, Claire. It’s a challenge. We can’t sleep on the floor.’

  As Desmonde bent over the backboard once again, the door-bell rang.

  ‘Who the hell can that be?’

  Without answering this pertinent question Desmonde went to the front door and opened it.

  A young man stood there, bareheaded and smiling.

  ‘I’m Joe Mullen, Father, sir, old Mrs Mullen’s grandson. She thought you might need a bit of a hand, getting in. With the bed, especial.’

  Desmonde held out his hand.

  ‘Come in, Joe. I’m very glad to see you. It’s the bed, of course.’

  He led the way to the front room where Joe looked at the bed and nodded.

  ‘It’s one of the old brigade, sir. I think I know its tricks.’

  He took off his jacket, revealing splendid arms, and took the backboard in both hands. One straining heave and it was up, tilted against the wall.

  ‘If you’d just put your hand on that, sir, so it doesn’t slip, I’ll have the end piece up in no time at all.’

  As good a
s his word, Joe soon had the end piece up and arranged in position. Then, holding it up with one hand, he took the two side beams and slotted them into position back and front. The centre piece followed. And there the framework of the bed stood, awaiting the mattress, a huge affair that Joe expertly slung into position.

  ‘There you are, sir. I think I’ll leave the blankets and sheets to madam.’

  ‘Thank you, Joe, a million times. Now you must tell me what I owe you.’

  ‘Not a brass farthing, sir. The name of Fitzgerald is still honoured on the Quays. Besides, I’m not so ill off myself.’

  ‘What do you do, Joe?’ asked Claire.

  ‘I’m a professional footballer, Madam. Centre forward for the Dublin Harp. I get good money for that, then, since I’m free, after and evening, except on Saturday, Mr Besson has made me wine waiter in the lounge of the Hibernian.’

  ‘Mr Besson?’

  ‘He’s the Swiss gentleman that bought the old Hib, and with his good Irish wife has made a wonderful place out of it, you wouldn’t know it from the old Hib. Come in and see me there, both of you. There’ll always be a glass of sherry for you on the house.’

  ‘Thank you, Joe,’ said Claire. ‘ We will.’

  ‘Well now, I’ll be off, wishing you both a good night’s rest in that fine old Irish bed.’

  When Desmonde came back from showing Joe out, he looked at the bed, then at Claire.

  ‘What a fine young man that is, so strong, so well built, and so polite.’

  ‘He certainly is, dear. And mighty handsome too.’

  In the kitchen, the eggs were hard boiled but, sliced with tomatoes and eaten with toast and coffee, they made a satisfactory meal.

  ‘And now for bed, darling. I’m dead beat. We’ll leave the dishes till tomorrow.’

  As they undressed and rolled into the cosy big bed, Claire breathed:

  ‘Isn’t this lovely, darling, the big bed, after dark woods and fusty railway coach, so warm and cosy? Come to me, darling, please, please.’

  He came to her, knowing that twice in one day was a bad, sad practice, but unable to resist, and afterwards, hand in hand, they fell deeply into sleep.

  Never, over many, many years, had this, old Irish bed, that had witnessed so many lyings-in and so many layings out, never had it harboured such a strange and ill-assorted couple as this young man and woman who now lay upon its broad expanse fast asleep, still holding hands.

  Chapter Two

  It was eight o’clock when Desmonde awoke from a good night’s sleep. After a moment he got up and rolled up the blinds, letting a flood of sunlight into the room. Claire, one eye open, lying there like an indolent cat, murmured sleepily: ‘Come back, Des. It’s so lovely, with all that sun.’

  ‘I would, Claire, but I have my appointment with Dr O’Hare this morning.’

  ‘Ah yes. Well, get yourself a cup of coffee, love, and some toast.’ As he pulled on his dressing gown and prepared to go, she added: ‘While you’re at it, dear, you might make it a double order – ’tis just as simple as one.’

  Five minutes later, he was back with a small tray on which two cups of coffee steamed invitingly beside two slices of hot buttered toast. Removing his own share of the breakfast to the little dressing table, he handed in the tray to Claire, now propped upon both pillows.

  ‘Des, what a darling you are, I picked the right one when I picked you. We really ought to make this a regular feature every morning.’

  Sipping luxuriously in bed, she was silent, then after a substantial bite at the toast she shook her head sadly: ‘Des, darling, I have a confession to make to you and I had better get it over with now, and have your absolution, rather than go on worrying myself to death. Des, dear, I am no use whatsoever in the kitchen. I can’t cook, never have done, and as I have been brought up as a lady …’ He looked up quickly to see if she was joking, but she was not, and went on with a kind of proud sadness: ‘ I have never put a finger in dish water or scrubbed a dirty pot, in my entire life.’ Allowing this to sink in she continued: ‘So maybe your old Mrs Mullen would give us a hand or find us a scullery girl.’

  ‘We’ll see what can be done, dear, when we’re settled in.’

  ‘If we want to eat, there’s lots of good cheap little restaurants just round the corner in O’Connell Street, that’s to say if the Hibernian is too expensive for you, dear Des.’

  ‘We’ll see about that, too, dear. In the meantime I must be off.’

  ‘I do hope you get the job, Des. It’s awful to have you hanging around here just doing nothing.’

  ‘And what do you propose to do this morning?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll just take a stroll up Grafton Street to look at the shops. By the way, love, have you just a little something for pocket money to see me around and so forth?’

  ‘Certainly, darling, I’ll just see to the dishes and get dressed first.’

  Desmonde took the breakfast dishes back to the kitchen and washed them with the left-over supper dishes. Mercifully there was hot water. The good Joe must have switched on the heater last night before he left. When he had dried the clean dishes Desmonde put them back in their places on the dresser shelf. He then shaved quickly before the miniature mirror hung over the sink and went back to the bedroom, where he dressed, then, unlocking his suitcase in the cupboard, he took ten pounds from his store of ready cash, not failing to look at his passbook, which showed a disquieting balance of eight hundred and sixty-two pounds. He now realised how much he had spent or given to charity of the three thousand inherited from his mother.

  ‘I’m off, then, Claire dear. Will this serve you for the time being?’

  She came out from cover of the sheet where she had been watching his every movement.

  ‘What, oh, Des, ’tis you. Oh, yes, dear.’ Taking the money: ‘This will see me around for a bit. Now good luck to you, darling. I’ll say a little prayer for you.’

  When he had gone she counted the notes, then snuggled down for another nap.

  Desmonde walked to the end of the Quays, turned right and made his way up to Grafton Street, pleased to find himself again in the famous street, justifiably the pride of Dublin, and continued until he reached the corner affording a view of College Green. He had intended walking to Ballsbridge, but now a sudden exacerbation of the tiredness he had felt all morning made him decide to take a tram. He knew very well the reason of his fatigue, and decided that he must take the matter up, nicely and reasonably, with Claire.

  A tram soon came round the bend and stopped at his signal. Once seated inside Desmonde was again swept by nostalgia, hurtful memories of his early boyhood, as the tram clanged its way along this very route he had so often followed on his way to school, feelings intensified as he descended from the tram at the Ballsbridge terminus and walked through the public gardens to St Brendan’s School.

  Some late scholars, in the familiar green and black blazers, were hurrying across the playground as he slowly followed them to the entrance doorway. No need to ask for directions. He well knew his way past the classrooms and along a private corridor leading to an end door, on which he knocked discreetly. Voices within indicated that Dr O’Hare was engaged, so Desmond seated himself on the bench outside. As a suppliant he was well prepared to wait. In perhaps a quarter of an hour the door was opened and a well dressed, officious looking woman was shown out by the headmaster and escorted courteously to the end of the corridor. Returning, Dr O’Hare saw Desmonde and silently beckoned him inside. Ensconced at his desk, he indicated a chair and when Desmonde was seated studied his visitor for a long, long time. Desmonde, too, respectfully returned that look, shocked, almost, by the signs of age on the headmaster’s lined and sagging face.

  ‘Well, Desmonde, I had your letter and perused it with deep surprise and sadness. What, I wonder, would your dear father, so honoured, so distinguished, have thought of it? In his old age it would probably have killed him. Were you unhappy as a young priest?’

  ‘Far from it. I loved
my work at Kilbarrack, but it was a choice between behaving like an honourable man or leaving a young woman of good family to suffer shame and dishonour alone.’

  ‘So the girl was pregnant.’

  Desmonde inclined his head in silence.

  ‘Well, now I see you in a better light, Desmonde. So now you are married, a cast-off from the church, in straitened circumstances and badly in need of work.’

  ‘As always, sir, you put the case with lucidity and a sense of justice.’

  ‘Don’t flatter me, Desmonde, or I shall have nothing to do with you. Now listen, what can you offer me as a teacher?’

  ‘I could teach Latin, French, Italian and even Spanish. I am fluent in these languages. And I believe I am reasonably good with the younger boys. I was quite successful with my First Communion and Confirmation classes at Kilbarrack.’

  ‘Just so,’ Dr O’Hare reflected. ‘Well, Desmonde, I could take you on to teach Latin and French to the two lower forms. For the rest, you could help me in the office, correcting papers, helping me with my correspondence, filing, and so forth. The normal salary would be £20 a month, but because of our past pleasant association and because you are obviously in need, I would make it £25 a month.’

  ‘Oh, sir, I am so …’ The headmaster held up his hand.

  ‘All this, Desmonde, is on one condition. That I am now, and will so remain, completely ignorant of the circumstances of your life. You are simply an old, esteemed pupil who had come to me seeking employment.’

  ‘I … I think I understand, sir, and of course I agree.’

  ‘Yes, Desmonde, if it came to the ears of any of the parents that I had knowingly engaged a man with your reputation to teach their young children, I should be in a very difficult position – unless I could instantly disown you.’